


Akrasia

by CourierNinetyTwo, QuickYoke



Series: Seelie AU [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Seelie Court, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-05-03 21:30:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 43,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5307548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourierNinetyTwo/pseuds/CourierNinetyTwo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lives of Glynda and Cinder and how they interact as seen through an alternate universe set in the Seelie Courts of the Fae.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

> **akrasia** (Gr. ἀκρασία) meaning: “the state of mind in which someone acts against their better judgement." Or  the name of the Seductress of Knights from “The Faerie Queen”
> 
>  

* * *

* * *

_ [200 years of age] _

* * *

Sunlight washed over the rolling hills that teemed with new green grass, rays flossy and unbroken but for the rare patch of begrudging cloud drifting slowly across an otherwise clear sky. Even though the early morning sun glinted richly, warmly across the surface of the calm winding river, just as it glanced from the solid gold hooves and horns of the cattle herds clustering in their pastures -- pure shining white but for a single narrow dart of black down their backs, as though an unwary artist slipped an ink-swelled brush down their spines -- the wind carried the chill of recent winter, gnawing at the roots of trees submerged in earth. Hopeful birdsong flitted between the tangled budding boughs, pausing only momentarily when the breeze rustled through the canopies, stiff, bracing.

It was the first day of Spring, but more importantly it was Glynda’s first day at Court, and on such a momentous occasion she had worn the wrong outfit.

Chrysanthemum was the style of the century, and even Glynda wasn’t so far removed from society to realise that, although she preferred to spend her days digging through libraries or out riding the tame blue-skinned hart her father had presented to her twenty odd years ago. She had planned for Chrysanthemums, as evidenced in the delicate floral lace high at her throat and wrists, held in place by small colourless pearls, but she hadn’t planned for so much colour.

All the various Lords and Courtiers mingling throughout the courtyard leapt out in bright splashes of colour: fresh lavenders, rosy pinks, even bold slashes of red and yellow, and of course green, more shades of green than any mere mortal eye could perceive. Glynda stood apart from the crowd feeling like she would fade and blend into the white marble columns gripped with ivy, as she wore a simple yet graceful white dress; the only spot of colour on her the soft violet lining that flared and flashed briefly when she walked.

The wind stirred up again, and Glynda shivered, resisting the urge to rub at her arms. When they had left the estate, her father hadn’t bothered to wear a coat --  preferring to stride about in monochromatic garments with the kind of stark elegance only a Winter Fae could achieve -- and foolishly she had neglected to bring one for herself. Crossing her arms in an attempt to preserve any heat she could, Glynda moved to stand on her father’s other side so that the breeze did not carry the subtle chill that always radiated off him, and she yearned fruitlessly for the high-collared half-cape back at home.

He noticed, looking at her first with puzzlement then understanding. WIth a commiserating smile, he opened his mouth to speak -- perhaps to gently reprimand her for leaving her coat behind -- but before he could, a voice rang out in greeting.

“Pastorius!” A Summer Courtier, whom Glynda had never met, approached with a broad cheerful smile. He appeared not much older than Glynda herself, and the start of a moustache fringed his upper lip. “Glad to see you could attend the ceremony! I expected you to hide away for fear of melting.”

Her father grinned at the good-natured teasing, and replied, “Even us Winter folk enjoy a spot of sunshine here and there, Port. If only you Summer Fae were as accommodating of a nice, pleasant snowfall.”

At the thought, Port gave an exaggerated shudder. “Perish the thought.” He seemed to at last notice Glynda, blinking at her from beneath his bushy eyebrows as if seeing a spirit. “This must be --”

“Glynda. The first -- and only -- to my name.” Her father supplied helpfully.

“At your service.” Port gave a brief bow, more for show than formality. “Tell me, Glynda, are you enjoying your first day at Court?”

They’d only just arrived; there hadn’t yet been a chance for her to steel herself against the babble of colour and conversation flowing all around them, or against the breakfast of pink-seeded figs and orange-blossom honey that turned suddenly in her stomach.

“Yes,” she answered.

With her crossed arms and her jaw clenched against the crisp breeze, it came out more perfunctory than she had intended, and she didn’t think to conjure up a smile in order to soften her tone.

For a second Port appeared taken aback, then he laughed, a raucous, boisterous sound. “She has a touch of Winter in her. I wonder where she gets it from, hmm?”

“Here’s to hoping she takes more after her mother than an old block of ice like me.” Her father placed a hand on Glynda’s shoulder, the touch cold but not dispassionate. Her memories of him from when she was a child were all like this. The way he would hug her, arms enclosing her as gently as he knew how, and still somehow always feeling rigid, unyielding, not a trace of warmth in his bones, or his marrows, his pale hair, his pale face, his iron-coloured eyes.

Standing beside him now, there could be no doubt that they were shared blood. She had his colouring, save for her eyes and stature. One a green as vivid and flashing as the leaves of the olive trees that sprawled across a quarter of their estate, the other tall and willowy as a reed, lacking Pastorius’ squareness of jaw and shoulder.

It wasn’t so rare, what her father had done, moving to a foreign Court to be with his family. Even now over Port’s head -- for he stood much shorter than she, squat and barrel-chested as a radish -- Glynda could spy a handful of Fae harkening from other Courts. Summer, mostly, like Port himself, and the less common Winter Fae, each standing out from the mass of Spring Courtiers like the smoulder of a bonfire or the bladed edge of a glacier.

Not a hint of Autumn in sight. Polar opposites seldom attract.

Whatever Port had to say in reply to her father’s dry quip, Glynda would never know, for just then a communal hush settled over the congregation. The throng of people parted like waves before the prow of a ship, shuffling back into two lines. Bracketed by Port on one side and her father on the other, Glynda found herself at the very front, able to see exactly what, or in this case, who had arrived.

The King of Spring -- known as ‘Ozpin’ to a very select few, and ‘Your Majesty’ to everyone else -- walked with a cane but no perceivable limp. He did not look to either side as he strode, slow and stately, down the corridor of Fae in the open courtyard, staring straight ahead at the throne that grew in the shape of a massive tree between two white archways. Where he walked, curling vines and fresh flowers bloomed in his wake, rising from his footsteps, from his very shadow. Two ravens, their wingtips greying with age, swooped ahead of him and settled upon the lowest branch of the tree, directly above the royal seat.

Without warning, the King’s footsteps slowed. Stopped. He stood so still it seemed he would become a bough -- the strangely wooden texture of his skin, the eerie and ageless quality of his face juxtaposed to his gnarled fingers gripping the cane. The dark, moss-green fabric of his coat hung beyond his knees, heavy, grassy, and almost black. He turned, and with a jolt of panic Glynda realised he was looking right at her.

“Here’s a new face.” His voice was velvety, even-tempered, a voice accustomed to speaking with authority and a mellow sort of wisdom.

Beside her, Pastorius was quick to bow, low and stiff, saying, “Your Majesty -- my sole daughter, Glynda.”

Ozpin did not turn his slow-moving gaze from her, though some small part of her wished he would; his eyes were old and circular as time itself, and being looked at by him felt like falling into glass alongside so many other grains of sand.

She was dry-mouthed and speechless, but Glynda blinked away the flash of fear, and held his gaze for as long as she could manage. Across her back, spreading between two shoulder-blades, the newly acquired traditional tattoo of raw Dust depicting her mother’s family crest prickled uncomfortably -- a vernal crown, boasting a long line of Sovereigns, hers an ancient Spring family.

As if he knew the effect he had -- perhaps this happened with all his subjects -- Ozpin said, “You remind me of your mother, you know. Her presence is sorely missed.”

Head still bowed, her father answered, “Glynda bears her Inheritance well. We expect great things from her.”

“As do we all,” Ozpin murmured, already turning to continue his walk to the throne. Mercifully, the words felt less like a threat and more like a promise. “Follow me.”

The command was given so calmly, so sure that it would be obeyed without question or hesitation, Glynda found her feet carrying her forward before she thought to move. When she peered over her shoulder at her father, he gave an encouraging little nod before stepping back into line beside Port and the rest.

Trailing along behind the King, Glynda could feel the eyes of the whole Court watching her, following her every move. Nobody whispered however, holding their silence until it glimmered in the air like a physical thing. In Ozpin’s wake, Glynda tried not to trip over the roots and brambles that littered the earthen floor wheresoever he walked.

Once more he stopped, this time directly beside the living throne. From thin air he plucked a knife of bright-edged flint, and for a single intense moment Glynda feared -- completely irrationally -- that he was going to use it on her, that this was why he had brought her before the entire Court: to die like a sacrificial lamb. Instead he held out his cane and, blinking, she took it without a word. The dark ebony wood felt warm to the touch, and the grain seemed to writhe before going still in her hands.

Both hands now free, the King reached up with the knife and clipped a slender branch from the tree. Dropping the knife -- where it fell into pieces and fluttered to the ground as leaves -- he walked back to the centre of the Court, carrying the graft with him, cupped between his two palms. Glynda remained where she stood beside the throne and watched the King drop to his knees and begin to pull back heaping handfuls of earth, digging. With meticulous care he scooped out the loam, which clung to his skin, embedding itself beneath his nails and soiling the sleeves of his jacket.

It took an age. Everyone else seemed content to wait and watch the ceremony, but Glynda shifted her feet, shrugged against the prickle of cold in the new spring air, ran her thumbs along the warm ebony cane, counting every notch, every scuff and scratch. Eager to do something, to be something -- she was young, still, and headstrong. But the Spring Fae did not rush into anything; they were temperate; they were reliable; they planted trees with their bare hands.

A few curious gazes still wandered in Glynda’s direction, her father’s among them -- though his bore that cool, stolid assurance she had come to always expect from him. The others had a gleam in their eyes, questioning, canny. Already she could tell she would have to grow accustomed to everyone wanting something from Ozpin’s young, new, fortuitous favourite.

Yet on the King toiled, fastidious yet gentle, the branch flourishing into a sapling even as he packed the earth down around its base, all the while with his back turned to Glynda as though he’d already forgotten all about her.

* * *

From a young age, Cinder had learned that opportunities must be more than earned, they must be manufactured.

A hint of summer still bristled in a dull heat haze above the ground, like the white-tipped tail of a fox whipping out of sight beneath the hollow of a tree when it’s heard the doleful baying of hounds in the distance. Only the faintest yellow traces nipped along the edges of leaves, and sweat prickles the brow during long walks through the dense forests, crawling with every manner of live, twitching, bounding game. With every passing day the nights grew longer, shadows lengthening in the early, dusky twilight hours across the vast and steep and wooded mountain slopes that carved a jagged network of ridges across the Kingdom like a spine.

It was the first day of Autumn, but more importantly it was Cinder’s first day at Court, and by her counting it had come two years too late.

Doubtless the occasion -- as momentous as any in a young Fae’s life -- would have been pushed back yet another year if her stepmother had anything to say about it, making some snide remark or another about the state of the small house and its humble grounds, and how they couldn’t leave it untended for a single moment. So Cinder had taken matters into her own hands, and shredded the best of her older stepsister’s Court appropriate gowns with a pair of pinking shears until it hung in ragged, uneven tatters from its straw-stuffed mannequin.

For her insolence, Cinder bore the vicious backslap and bruises with an air of smug satisfaction; it was worth it thrice over if it meant taking her stepsister’s place at Court. Her high shrieks of impotent rage over the announcement had just been an added bonus.

At Court she followed behind her stepmother and eldest stepsister, watching, a silent observer. Nobody cared to spare Cinder a passing glance, apart from her stepsister, who occasionally craned her neck to look over her shoulder and sneer. The three of them blended seamlessly into the crowd, which thronged with warm colour, the many Courtiers planting their feet wide, their shoulders draped with red and gold hunting capes, their pliant, honey-toned doeskin gloves tucked into their belts studded with broad brass. Decorative armour sheathed arms, legs, sometimes even torsos; here emblazoned with ochre-deep enamel, there sculpted with bold and brilliant repoussé.

Cinder felt out of place in her burgundy devoré dress, painstakingly hand-stitched during the witching hours, when the rest of the household was fast asleep and her only company was the sullen fireplace that choked the flue whenever a Westerly blew in across the mountains. Not once did she allow that unease to show however, walking as if each step proclaimed she couldn’t wish to be anywhere else in the world. It helped that it held an element of truth.

Skirting around the edges of the congregation, lurking like shadows given form, Cinder could see figures moving, exchanging messages, delivering items -- bronze-bright cutlery, agate studded drinking goblets, and pitchers that brimmed with hot mulled wine, fragrant and heavy with cloves. Faunus, the Court’s faceless servants. Hidden behind pale masks -- streaked with fingermarks of paint like blood to denote which duties they performed -- their eyes glinted through the distance, owlish, catching the light of the bone candelabras and casting it back at uncertain angles. None of the Courtiers seemed to notice their existence, and Cinder watched them flit around the crowd like those wispy spirits that emerged from the cold darkness of forests during Winter Solstice, unseen, unheard, unheeded by all.

This was the first Cinder had seen them in the flesh. She’d heard of them, but for as long as she could remember their estate had never been able to afford such luxuries as being waited upon by half-breeds.

Her stepmother and stepsister came to stop near the back North corner furthest from the throne, which only the very highest ranked officials of Court and members of ceremony dared approach the aged King. Cinder could barely make out the vague outline of his shape through the ranks of Courtiers, and it felt like stalking a particularly shy and wary deer, always eluding her grasp.

Here -- between the trees like pillars trailing their russet and tawny leaves that drift to the earthen floor and crunch underfoot -- her stepmother clearly expected to mingle before the ceremony began. Sure enough, another lowly Courtier spied them through the press of people, and made her approach with all the subtlety of a rutting bull.

“My dearest Tremaine, how good to see you!” She extended her hands, which Cinder’s stepmother clasped firmly yet not at all warmly in her own.

“Gingema, how lovely!”

The two of them exchanged their many false pleasantries, all while their eyes flicked over one another, weighing, judging, inventing little faux-pas of fashion and the like with which to gouge the other once their backs were turned. Cinder stood as apart from them as she dared in a vain attempt to not be associated with them while her stepsister hovered just outside their conversation with a vapid smile, laughing when her mother laughed, frowning when her mother frowned, so as to give the appearance of being engaged.

In spite of her best efforts, Gingema’s shrewd eye eventually fell upon Cinder in a luckless stroke.

“Who in the King’s name is this?” she managed to somehow peer down her long angled nose at Cinder, even though Cinder stood taller by a good hand and a half.

Her stepmother’s lips pursed, and she shot Cinder a look sharp as arrow-heads as if Cinder had deliberately called this attention to herself. “My late husband’s daughter.”

“What beastly marks!” Gingema eyed Cinder’s bruises askance, and continued to talk about her as though she weren’t standing right before them, clear as day.

“Yes. She got into a fight with a poor passing merchant on his way by the estate on the main road South,” her stepmother lied with an enviable ease. “She has a vile temper, and a wicked soul. Just like her mother.”

At that, Gingema’s keen eyes widened, and she leaned back as though suddenly afraid of catching a sickness that Cinder breathed. She lowered her voice to a whisper of hushed, conspiratorial, sadistic delight. “Is it true what they say?”

Her stepmother smiled, a sharp, briary smile, and -- never looking away from Cinder’s flat stare -- murmured to her friend in reply, “Every word.”

Cinder couldn’t remember her mother’s name, though the woman herself remained on the Court’s lips for almost the last two centuries, speaking of her in hushed, furtive tones, always nameless. They said she had been the scion of a great family, the last of her name, a name as old as the crown itself. They said she could cure any ailment with her cauldron of knowledge and potions, bewitch any unfortunate soul with her wits and charms. They said a streak ran too broad and too dark in her soul, that it ate her up from inside like a malignant cancer, until one night it overcame her. They said she was found in a glade sprawled with the bodies of her victims, a scatter of limbs and bones and ash, that by the time they came upon her she had long since turned Unseelie, a horrific creature of Grimm with black leathery wings and a maw like a bloodied bellows. Consumed by the raw hungers and magics of every Fae’s innate nature, she had stolen her name’s sacred Inheritance and fled to the far South, beyond the tundra of Winter, to be pursued -- like all her kind must -- by the Wild Hunt into an endless, starless night.

Of this information, this cruel but authentic gossip, the only thing Cinder knew for certain was that her mother was Unseelie, and that her father had quickly remarried whoever would have him in a last desperate attempt to salvage the future of his daughter’s Inheritance. For all Fae knew that to be the third daughter of the lowest name was better than to have no name at all.

“Why on earth did you marry the man if _this_ was what you received in return?” Gingema gestured towards Cinder with a distasteful, sour expression, like she’d bitten into a rotten plum.

At that Tremaine raised a finger to her painted lips and joked with a sly grin, “A lady is never to kiss and tell.”

Almost immediately, Gingema’s shock of crude laughter was drowned out by the wailing chorus of olifant horns and the cry of copper-feathered falcons wheeling overhead, heralding the approach of the Venery. All in the Court fell silent, turning as the Venery entered with their hard-won prize still bleeding from its recent wounds, a wild boar with a dense brown hide and a set of great curling tusks. They paraded the trophy of the season’s first ceremonial hunt towards the throne, each member of the Venery’s matching hunting capes flashing a handsome scarlet.

Once, long ago, the King would have led the hunt that marked the beginning of Autumn, but he was ancient now. On and on, he languished upon his throne of bleached antlers and timberwolf pelts. An Autumn Sovereign’s age was indicated by the length of their fangs, and Cinder had heard that the King bore canines like a sabretooth’s; one broken from when he mauled a mammoth Grimm to death a millennium ago during the bloodrage of Samhain.

Cinder wanted to see everything. She wanted to see the King and the way he rose from his throne, shoulders broad with the skin of a massive hoary bear from the frozen Winter tundra. The way he drew an obsidian knife from his belt and, before the whole Court, carefully skinned the first kill of Autumn. The way he offered the steaming offal to his Huntsman as a prize. The way he ascended the throne with ruddy, dripping footsteps, and lifted the boar’s severed head in both hands, roaring to the assembled Court, to which they all raised their voices in triumphant return -- a cacophonous bellow that shook the trees and scattered a flock of startled shrikes to flight.

But she couldn’t. Where Cinder stood there wasn’t a thimbleful of space to move. All stagnant, all decay. She rose up on her toes, but her stepmother gripped her shoulder, sharp nails digging deep, and pushed Cinder back down into place.

Foolishly, Cinder muttered under her breath, “I wish I could get closer.”

She thought she’d spoken softly enough for no one to hear, but her stepsister turned with an incredulous stare. “Don’t be ridiculous!” She hissed, pinching the sensitive back of Cinder’s upper arm, knowing Cinder couldn't balk and cause a scene here. “The youngest of three daughters from _our_ name? This is as close as you’ll ever get.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_[500 years of age]_

* * *

* * *

 

Midway along a valley, a mist cottoned to the treeline burnished yellow and orange like the coals of a blacksmith’s forge, yet the air clung to the skin, cool and damp. Black moss coveted the split spaces between treebark, thick and striking as veins, and swift narrow streams fed by southern glaciers carved out their tracks over massive boulders gripped with a spiderweb of roots and lichen.

Through the thick low-slung branches, a stag dipped its crowned head to drink. With a flick of its ears, the beast froze then bounded away in a splash, vanishing into the dense underbrush. All fell silent for a few long moments, until a pack of hounds crashed into view, muddying their paws along the bank. They were followed closely by a train of well-dressed mounted Courtiers on a hunt, dogs snuffling alongside the stream for the lost trail, their tails waving like white fronds, while the party gathered itself to continue its pursuit of the stag.

Near the front of the group, Cinder rode her red roan mare just two lengths shy of the Huntsman, whose green-feathered cap bobbed ahead of the pack. Beneath her the horse moved as she perched atop it side-saddle, the muted clack of copper-shod hooves over loose riverstones. She wore a sleek gown with divided skirts for a free range of movement, the velvet cloth a daring shade of vivid burnt umber just shy of red, but not red itself. On a Court hunt, red was the King’s official colour, and all but he and his chosen Venery were forbidden to wear it. Even now Cinder could hear a few disgruntled murmurs from the Courtiers riding towards the rear of the group.

“Careful, or you’ll be the stuff of scandals.”

Cinder glanced over at who had ridden up beside her, their horses jostling side by side. Lady Cythera Adel’s scarlet cape thrown rakishly over one shoulder announced to any who looked at her as a member of the Venery, just as her confident commanding presence announced her as a high-ranking member at Court, hers a pedigree as long and prodigious as her list of lovers.

Flashing her a grin, Cinder shot back, “Isn’t that the point, Lady Adel?”

With a snort Cythera shook her head, dark short-cut hair ruffling in a chilly breeze as she expertly guided her horse to a halt. “Only if your idea of fun involves a great deal of bloodsport.”

Gesturing to the company surrounding them -- the pack of hounds, the hunting party with their brace of spears and quivers fraught with arrows -- Cinder quipped, “Would we be friends if it were otherwise?”

“Most certainly not.” Swapping both reins to one hand, Cythera leaned forward on the horn of her saddle. “Though as much as we might both wish differently, spaces among the Venery are rare. I’m afraid you’d have to wait until someone retired or otherwise disavowed themselves of the position to wear the red you deserve.”

Their knees brushed together, sharing a contact as lingering as their gazes. “Such a pity.” Cinder murmured, adding dryly. “To think you could count yourselves so lucky to have me among your ranks.”

At that, Cythera laughed. “Of course, if it were up to me, I’d swear you into the Venery in a heartbeat. Rest assured,” she reached over to briefly grasp Cinder’s thigh when nobody else was watching, “should the time come, your name will be the first on my lips when the Huntsman asks for a recommendation.”

Cinder’s eyes warmed to a golden glow, honing to a slightly feral edge, just on the cusp of overly bright. “My name could be on your lips much sooner than that.”

Cythera’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and, amused, she glanced around. The Huntsman had called for a rest, and the train of Courtiers were all dismounting while the hounds were rounded up to be muzzled and leashed. A junior member of the Venery was sent westward to scout ahead for any sign of their quarry while the rest of the hunting party readied themselves for a brief lunch.

With a nod and a shared grin, the both of them dismounted, tethering their horses to a nearby branch before slipping away from the group through the woods. When they’d walked a suitable distance, Cinder was quick to push Cythera up against a tree, lifting the red cloak to cast it aside as their mouths met in a bruising kiss. Hurried, Cinder began working the many small bronze buttons of the Venery doublet loose, ducking her head to suck at Cythera’s neck.

Head flung back against the mossy tree, Cythera gasped between grit teeth, “I’m sure there’s some ceremonial rule we’re breaking by doing this.”

“Oh?” Cinder punctuated the inquisitive hum with a sharp nip to Cythera’s pale collarbone, pausing to slip her hand under the shirt beneath the now open doublet, cupping a breast. “This isn’t so different from a hunt, you know. Except in this instance, I’ve actually caught the game.”

“What makes you think _I’m_ the prey?” Cythera grabbed a handful of Cinder’s hair and pulled her up for a rough kiss, all fire and teeth.

Through it Cinder’s smile sharpened, turning trenchant as a butcher’s knife. “Because,” she murmured, hands wandering down to pull at Cythera’s trouser drawstrings, “the prey gets eaten.”

No sooner had Cinder worked Cythera’s trousers down her calves, than they both froze. High above the canopy carried the panicked peal of a horn trumpeting its distress call. Head whipping around towards the sound, Cinder stared to the west, where the scout had last been seen heading. Once again the horn sounded, cutting off on a shrill desperate note halfway through.

Swearing under her breath, Cythera furiously yanked her trousers up. “Head back to the safety of camp,” she ordered, fingers fumbling with the row of tiny buttons on her doublet.

Ignoring her completely, Cinder snatched up Cythera’s discarded skinning knife from the ground and began to run towards the source of the noise. Behind her she could hear Cythera’s shout, but Cinder pressed on through the forest, pushing branches aside with one hand so that they whipped in her wake. Seeing a hint of red through the trees, she slowed her approach, creeping forward until she stood at the edge of a clearing.

There the scout held a short hunting spear in shaking hands, keeping two mountain lions at bay -- a hunting party in their own right, likely tracking the same quarry. The great cats circled, trying to flank him, and he brandished the spear in an attempt to stop the manoeuvre. Both lions paused only momentarily before continuing their prowl, muscles bunching beneath tawny dappled fur, their tufted ears and long tails the colour of charcoal as though singed. One of them swung its heavy square head in Cinder’s direction, studying her with a fixed, unblinking stare.

At that the scout peered wildly around, white as a sheet. When he saw her standing there he cried out, voice cracking in panic. “Please! Help--!”

But as soon as he turned his head, one of the lions pounced, springing forward and batting the spear aside. Its powerful jaws snapped around the scout’s neck, dragging him to the ground and clamping him into place with its hind legs.

From the sidelines Cinder watched, holding the knife in one hand, doing nothing. When the other lion took a step in her direction, her eyes settled on it, burning. Soot-blackened ears flattened to the lion’s skull and under her glare it quailed, shoulders drooping. Cinder stared after it as the lion made a sloping retreat into the shadow of the far thicket, leaving its fellow behind, and only then -- when she was sure the scout was well and truly dead -- did she move forward.

Hefting the knife in her grasp, Cinder came upon the remaining lion from behind. It growled a warning around the scout’s throat, shuffling his body around as though afraid she would steal the kill. Lunging forward, she grasped its thick ruff of fur with one hand and with the other drove the sharp point of the knife between its ribs. With a snarl of pain and outrage it dropped the body, rounding on her in a hissing leonine fury. Wrenching the blade free, Cinder drove it home again, then again, narrowly avoiding the broad swipe of claws as the lion lashed out in its death throes.

It was still twitching when Cinder heard the pounding of hooves behind her, announcing the arrival of the Venery. Panting, she dropped the bleeding feline carcass beside that of the fallen scout just as the Huntsman crashed through the trees on his greying steed. In her hand the knife dripped with gore, staining the earth at her feet in warm fresh dark clots.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Cinder said to the Huntsman as the rest of the Venery fanned out beside him upon their horses, surrounding the clearing. “I know that red is strictly the King’s colour on a hunt.”

He eyed the slops of bright blood painting her hands, her arms, the whole front of her dress. “In this instance, I think your wearing of it is appropriate.”

Three members of the Venery, including Cythera, slid from their horses and approached the scout’s body to confirm his death, muttering curses under their breaths.

“I believe this is yours.” Cinder held out the knife to Cythera, who reached over slowly to take it, staring at Cinder as though she only now was seeing her clearly for the first time. Such an exchange did not go unnoticed.

The Huntsman jerked his head towards Cinder, the feather in his cap nodding, green and glossy. “She is an acquaintance of yours, Lady Adel?”

With a wary appreciation, Cythera pulled out a cloth to clean her knife before sheathing it. “She is, Your Grace.”

The Huntsman’s horse champed, unruly, at the bit, and he yanked the reins, forcing the horse into a tight circle in place yet all the while he peered over his shoulder to keep an eye on Cinder in the centre of the clearing. “You should have brought her along sooner.”

 

* * *

 

Less than a week later, Cinder stood before the thin floor-length mirror in her family estate’s parlour, adjusting the scarlet Venery doublet buttoned from chin to navel. Idly, she wondered to herself with a small smile if the Lady Adel had given the quartermaster Cinder’s measurements in order for them to produce such a fine fitting. Or perhaps the red simply suited her.

When she turned to study herself, in the dim doorway behind her Cinder caught sight of her stepmother watching her with a cold, critical eye. Whereas not long before Tremaine had been all syrupy smiles when the next most junior member of the Venery had appeared on their doorstep to drop off Cinder’s new uniform  -- even going so far as to kiss Cinder on both cheeks and proclaim how deeply proud the family was for her good fortune -- now her stepmother stood with crossed arms and pursed lips. Her auburn hair was clasped back severely at the base of her neck, a far cry from the usual coiffure she assumed for Court occasions, and it gave her a drawn look, making her seem much older than her 3700 or so years. Her two daughters had been furious at the announcement of Cinder’s promotion, but Tremaine had snapped at them harshly, and that was the last of the matter Cinder had heard from them since they’d flounced off to their rooms for a sulk.

Slinking forward, Tremaine crossed the room and as she did so she plucked the red cape into her arms from where it hung over the back of a chaise. Cinder watched her approach in the mirror without turning her head, and when Tremaine came to a stop directly behind her the both of them stared silently at one another for a long tense moment.

At last, her stepmother broke through the veil of quiet. Spreading the gold-trimmed cape in her arms, she admired its fine hand in its making, its rich dye. “What a shame you had to sleep with that harlot Adel rather than earn this on your own merit.”

Cinder straightened a gilded vambrace around one wrist and replied calmly, “Sleeping with Lady Adel was purely for pleasure. The promotion was merely an added bonus.”

Somehow Tremaine could make even a hum of agreement sound like a disdainful scoff. “How very fortuitous.” Reaching around, she draped the cape over Cinder’s shoulder, tying the golden cord into place so that the cloth fell just so. “Were you as clever as you are spiteful, I would suspect you of foul play. But the whole affair can be chalked up to those fools among the Venery.”

Cinder remained silent while her stepmother continued to speak, tightening the braided cord until it squeezed her ribs uncomfortably. She never once complained nor allowed the discomfort to show, eyes steady and molten in the mirror’s slick surface.

“What idiots!” Tremaine muttered half to herself, tying the cord into an elaborate yet secure knot. “Hunting around these parts during the lions’ peak mating season? It’s almost like they wanted someone to get killed!”

At that, Tremaine met Cinder’s gaze sharply, and she grabbed her by the upper arms, the grip painful. “You’d best tread carefully,” she hissed, voice low and dangerous. “Even if you are a child of Grimm, you still represent my name. If you absolutely must be gored to death on a hunt, at least don’t embarrass us in front of the whole Court.”

“I’ll do my best,” Cinder replied in a wry tone.

With a derisive sniff, Tremaine let go of her, turning to leave. “Don’t forget to pack up your things before you depart for the barracks. I won’t have your junk cluttering the house in your absence.”

And with that she was gone.

Having all the appearances of the dutiful stepdaughter, Cinder went to her cramped room just adjacent to the smoky kitchens -- servant’s quarters that had been outfitted for her use after her father’s demise some 450 years ago. She had already stowed away her immediate personal belongings in a single rucksack to sling over her shoulder. Everything else had been crammed into a wooden crate, which she now took into the kitchen. Anything flammable Cinder stacked in the fireplace and lit with a touch, until she came to the bottom of the crate.

Hesitating she reached down for the last of the two items. Delicate gold links curled around her fingers, stringing together a chain of raven’s feathers, black as night, not a hint of iridescent shimmer to them. Sentimentality wasn’t something she could afford, yet after a moment of consideration Cinder stuffed the chain into her pocket.

The last item she picked up and turned over in her hand. A tiny perfume bottle, slender as her finger and made of clear cut glass. It was empty, but once -- not very long ago -- it had held just enough lion’s musk to scent an unwary cloak.

Cinder dropped it to the floor where it shattered across the stones, and with her booted foot she swept the shards into a far corner behind the stack of firewood.

 

* * *

 

There were many good reasons the Autumn and Spring Courts rarely rode side-by-side.

Opposites they were at best, but it was one thing to run in opposing directions and another to be directly at odds. Among black and dying branches, when the air was cold and sharp enough to cut, Spring’s fertility was encroachment, warm vines and an ever-growing tangle, garish color breathed into empty space. Thus Autumn’s Pursuivant had told Glynda as such, and while both of them were accorded the same rank, she found nothing in common with his nature, nor the strange and snarling mount he rode, too many teeth protruding up from its mouth.

Yet Ozpin’s presence required her company, following in tow as he rode up ahead, sharing a conversation with the Autumn King wrapped away in silence from the rest of the world. Supposedly it was a trick of Sovereigns -- and the most clever spies -- but Glynda noted the handful of times both monarchs threw their heads back in laughter, amused but soundless. Their joint hunt had gone well enough, she supposed, every member of the Venery eager to carry back their kills with pride, heedless of the blood soaking into their cloaks. It was an honor, apparently.

She turned another page in her book before running her knuckles down the soft cerulean fur at the nape of the hart’s neck, offering silent encouragement for keeping pace without constant guidance. The same couldn’t be said for the Courtier struggling to break through the pack several steps behind, a young and incredibly insistent man who had already tried to ply her favors throughout the hunt, praise spilling past his lips in one useless, irritating stream. To see him approaching from behind again, daring near both Kings, forced Glynda’s jaw into a rigid line.

“My lady Pursuivant!” Stumbling hoofbeats brought him in line with her steed, sweat pouring down the Courtier’s brow. By some miracle, his mount wasn’t half as winded. Perhaps the boy wasn’t used to being outside the Court’s comfort. “May I speak with you?”

“You are already speaking with me, regardless of my consent.” Glynda replied, the snap in her voice stark as green wood split in two. “What is it?”

“There’s a party of Seneschals who wish to speak to King Ozpin on a certain matter.” The reins in his hands were held too tight out of nerves, biting red lines into his palms that made Glynda wince. “They bade me carry the message.”

Marking the page in her book with a stolid sigh, Glynda arched a brow, fighting the urge to send her mount rushing forward. “And what matter would that be? They could speak to their Lord and have the message formally sent, not bounced along the voices of a hunting party.”

“It’s meant to be a secret, I believe, my lady.” His sheepish smile was far too earnest, untested. “A gift for your king.”

That raised her hackles in an instant, but Glynda buried the reaction, face still. “You should be able to understand how such a thing might cause concerns--”

“Glynda.” Ozpin’s voice broke through his web of royal silence, calm yet carrying over the constant drum of hoofbeats, all the boisterous laughter and song from the Venery. “I would speak with you.”

“Tell your Seneschals to seek their superiors before they call on my King.” Glynda said sharply to the Courtier, knees squeezing together just a degree to urge her mount forward, the hart instant to obey. A stride short of Ozpin’s steed, she slowed, keeping some respectful distance. “Your Majesty?”

“Ah, there you are.” Ozpin was smiling, as was the Autumn King, an odd sight around massive tusks. The ivory was chipped and stained, but behind that he appeared as any other singularly pleased old man, not the force of nature that brought the last promise of heat and life before death descended. “It seems our arrival to the feast was a bit hasty. They’re not prepared to cook what we’ve caught.”

Glynda didn’t believe that for a moment, all too aware every Court kitchen was up and scurrying before dawn whenever the word _feast_ was even suggested. Like as such, this was a whim on the part of one King or another -- worse off would be both. “What are we to do then, your Majesty?”

“Some wine and early games, I think.” He made a vague gesture back over one shoulder, eyes bright and dew-polished. “I’m sure we have enough in our party to determine some suitable entertainment, don’t you?”

“With an emphasis on the wine, Odran.” The voice of the Autumn King could scarcely be called such; it was a low rumble twisted into syllables, the roar of beasts long extinct. “Something to wash the bones down.”

“So my Pursuviant comes in our time of need.” The edge of Ozpin’s smile had been washed away, and Glynda wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe his name, misspoken as such. “Could you ride with the Venery to the stables and ensure our spoils make it safely to their destination? We will keep the nobility amused in the clearing up ahead.”

Dressed in kinder words, Glynda knew she was being assigned to spy on the hunters. Were any assassin brave enough to take their chance today, poisoning the night’s meal when it was out of sight was a fair opportunity.“And the wine, Your Majesty?”

“We’ll see which young bucks are the fastest to go fetch it.” The Autumn King replied in stead, sharp teeth flashing. “Give whoever wins a prime cut of the kill.”

Ozpin gave a firm nod, attention back on the path in front of him. “An excellent idea. Glynda, if you would?”

Holding another sigh between her teeth, Glynda broke away from their company to call out to the Venery, every casual jest cut short as the hunters straightened their backs, hoisting their spoils high with a shout of pride before moving to follow her lead. The ride to the stables was mercifully short without the weight of assorted nobles, their steeds festooned and gilded with great ceremony, struggling to keep in line with fit mounts meant for the chase. Her hart was forgiving enough of the speed, huffing quietly for breath when she finally slowed to a stop, and Glynda whispered a few faint words of praise to soothe the beast.

“See all your mounts cared for and we’ll return to the Court.” Glynda ordered, answered mostly by joyous shouts and hungover _ayes_ from the hunters who had decided to start celebrating this feast the night before. “And trade off whoever is carrying the spoils. Let someone else bear the burden a while.”

Here in Autumn’s territory, Glynda was unfamiliar with this stable in particular, but a few steps under its wooden arch, she spotted a pale swath of cambric hidden between columns and shadows, stained with fresh-spilled blood. Squinting to make out more details, Glynda reached back for her crop, magic just a breath away from her fingertips were she to summon Spring into this carved, hollow place.

“Show yourself.” She demanded, leather handle melded warm to her palm in a strong grip. “The dark isn’t hiding you.”

“If that was my intent, I would have chosen a better place to steal away.” The voice that answered was warm and far too sweet, sticking like honey to the back of the tongue, but its owner didn’t emerge until a moment later, revealing her tunic was entirely drenched in blood. Over one arm was an open Venery doublet, golden trim dyed with nigh-wet crimson. “Would it please the Spring Court for me to strip in public?”

“Where’s your cloak?” The young woman looked like a member of the Venery by her dress, but Glynda didn’t recall her pursuing any kill in the long day’s hunt, nor gathered in their party upon first meeting. “Bloodied as well?”

“Stolen by an old lover of mine with a sense of humor. I believe it’s hanging like a flag from her horse at the moment.” Gesturing down to her ruined tunic, the woman’s eyes were like glittering coins, holding a heat no stare was meant to. “I was always told we wore them for the sake of bloodshed, but now I see how true that is.”

“If you’re with the Autumn Venery--” That wavering _if_ branded itself in the forefront of Glynda’s mind as she dismounted, crop still in hand, “--then you would know the best place for my hart to rest, would you not? This is your Court’s stable.”

Anger stripped the polish from the woman’s eyes. “I’m not a stablehand.”

“Aren’t you?” Best to drive the knife deep now to be sure of rank and apologize later than let an assassin slip the leash. Glynda took a step forward, gaze held steady and unblinking. “Share your name then, so I can divest myself of ignorance.”

“Cinder Fall.” Uttered between clenched teeth, almost like a curse. “Honored of the Venery, and not a servant for your Court to command.”

“Not a servant, but you remain below me.” Stepping into the sliver of light the open stable doors offered, Glynda ensured the crest emblazoned on her tabard was in Cinder’s view. “Or do you share the King’s ear?”

The surge of anger didn’t vanish, but it was somewhat tempered, beaten to a wary edge. “Perhaps I spoke in haste. The excitement of the hunt loosens every tongue, especially we come home so victorious.”

Another step and there was no shadow left between them. Glynda brought the keeper of her crop up underneath Cinder’s chin, the leather tongue’s rounded tip an inch above a vulnerable pulse.“Is that so?”

“Yes, _my lady.”_ Not an ounce of respect -- even grudging -- matched the title, but for some reason Glynda found herself smiling. For all she had heard about the Autumn Court’s bloodlust and vicious feuds, their nobles were just as willing to bow as that of Spring, save this one. “Did you not come to our lands expecting savagery?”

So their thoughts had aligned: interesting. “I may have initially, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised so far. See to my mount and my goodwill stays intact. How does that sound?”

A hard swallow pressed back against her crop in silent rebellion, but Cinder gave a tight nod after a moment’s silence. “As you will it.”

Despite the promise, Glynda watched Cinder go through all the motions, treating the hart with a well-practiced hand. Any member of the Venery knew a saddle well, the devotion it took to keep a steed in proper health, and even with the smoldering ashes of anger every time she caught the huntress’ stare, Cinder appeared to possess all the required skill. When all was made ready, she stormed out of the stable without another word, leaving Glynda alone with nothing but curiosity for company.

 

* * *

 

The air smelled too sweet. Too raw. Too green. Every so often the faint breeze would shift directions, and Cinder’s nose would crinkle against the itch of a sneeze that never came. All around her the Spring Fae cluttered the open halls of the Autumn Court in clusters of overly bright overly fragrant bouquets that flooded the senses. While they waited for the start of the feast to be announced so they could all take their seats, Cinder found herself instinctively gravitating towards the section of the Court dominated by red and auburn hues.

She told herself it was to continue her latest machinations among the Autumn Courtiers, but if she were being honest she couldn’t bear the thought of standing so near so many Spring Fae for very much longer.

“Is it always like this?” Cinder muttered to Lady Adel, who glanced at her over the rim of a studded bronze goblet of fire spirits strong enough to sear the tongue and mouth a vivid scarlet, as though the drinker had been eating uncooked meat.

“Worse.” Cythera said, gesturing with her free hand towards some of their nearby guests. “Every alternate feast is held at the Spring Court itself.”

Cinder gave an exaggerated shudder. Just brushing shoulders with Spring Fae felt like oil sliding slick over water, leaving a faint film of malaise behind that coated the very skin. She desperately wanted a bath once this was all said and done.

Over the throng of Lords and Courtiers could be seen a haze that trailed along like an ailing yellowish cloud. At first, Cinder had eyed it with curiosity until she realised it was a steady mist of pollen that followed the Spring King’s every move, sending the surrounding trees into eruptions of new growth that faded back to orange and black as soon as he passed. Seeing it again now, Cinder rubbed furiously at her nose and a sound of dim disgust scratched the back of her throat. As she looked away, however, she paused.

There, not far from the Spring King, trailed the young Pursuivant from earlier at the stables. Her white and green tabard glinted with gilt threads in the pale, flickering candlelight. Where all the other Spring Fae set Cinder’s teeth on edge, this one seemed cut from a different cloth. An unyielding spirit lived there, something enduring and undeniably powerful. At the time when they had first met in the stables, Cinder had recognised her family crest, but knew little other than her Inheritance was ancient and potent enough to taste on the air.

Pointing with a jerk of her chin, Cinder asked, “What do you know about her?”

Beside her, Cythera craned her neck until she found who Cinder was referring to. “The King’s favourite, or so I hear. Why do you ask?” She glanced over at Cinder, then laughed, a short harsh bark. “Oh, I know that look. Don’t bother.”

Cinder’s eyebrows rose in an expression of affected innocence.

Reaching out, Cythera tugged Cinder’s cloak straighter about her shoulder, an action that could be mistaken for simple teasing friendliness if half of the Autumn Court hadn’t already known they were sleeping together. “Even you aren’t _that_ good. But watching you fail should be amusing.”

Cinder met Cythera’s gaze in a challenging stare. In response Cythera handed over the last dregs in her goblet with a grin, saying, “You’ll need this.”

Cinder threw back the scalding spirits in a single draught, pressed the goblet back into Cythera’s hands, and turned to stride through the throng of Courtiers.

As she approached, the Pursuivant’s back was to her, curls of hair pulled back like a roll of fine pale golden hay. When Cinder drew near enough, those narrow shoulders tensed, and the Pursuivant whirled about sharply, the way an animal did when it felt a hunter aim their arrows down its flank, all alert precision, every muscle tense, ready to bolt or attack depending on the situation.

“Fancy running into you twice in one day.” Cinder flashed a smile that showed one too many teeth. “Fate rains its favour upon me, it seems.”

Those eyes, verdant as far pastures, narrowed, hardening. As they raked across the Venery cloak, Cinder could feel a prickle run along her spine like shrugging against a burr caught between her shoulderblades. “I see you weren’t lying after all.”

“And yet you continue to wound me.” Cinder placed a hand over her heart, adding, “I think an apology is in order. And a proper introduction.”

The look of shock and indignation at such audacity was worth the risk. She could request Cinder be flogged by the Huntsman until dawn crept over the horizon and the sun’s weak rays warmed the forest’s blackened boughs. Instead she drew in a deep steadying breath, squaring her jaw. “The Honourable Glynda Goodwitch, Pursuivant of Arms in Ordinary.” She gave the barest inclination of her head in a bow, every word prised from her mouth with great reluctance. “My most sincere apologies for our earlier misunderstanding.”

“Glynda.” Cinder drawled out each syllable, the liquid skip of her tongue like that of a stone upon water. Even her name had a glimmer to it, the glance of mid-morning sunlight over dewy grass. “A pleasure. I trust you’re enjoying the festivities?”

With a frown, Glynda looked to one side and when Cinder followed her gaze it was to find a group of Spring Courtiers hovering nearby, hesitant, as though they had been waiting to speak with the King’s favourite only for their plans to be interrupted by Cinder’s arrival. “My preference doesn’t involve the company of others,” Glynda admitted, voice lowered to a surly grumble.

One of Cinder’s dark sculpted eyebrows quirked upwards, and she said, “If that’s the case, I should leave you be--”

“That’s not what I meant,” Glynda added hastily when Cinder made to take a step away. Seeing the amusement on Cinder’s face, she let loose a huff of irritation. “And you know it.”

“Ah, yes. Having the ear of the King is such a burden. Your parents must be ashamed.” Cinder quipped dryly.

She did not leave though, not yet. Instead she waved a nearby Faunus bearing a tray of drinks closer. The scent of heavily spiced warm beverages accompanied him as he proffered the tray, steam coiling around the edges of his red-streaked mask. Taking two spindly glasses that flashed with heat and dark wine, Cinder murmured, “Thank you.”

The only evidence of his surprise at being recognised was a flick of his black ears, before he melted back into the crowd, just another invisible servant.

Glynda took the beverage Cinder handed over, balancing the hot glass between her fingertips, switching between hands until it cooled off enough to drink. On the other hand Cinder drank hers without hesitation, cupping the glass in her palms to incubate the heat. “I don’t see as much of my father these days as I might like. He prefers the privacy of our estate to the trammels of Court life.” Glynda pointed over Cinder’s shoulder. “There he is. Talking with that hideously dressed woman.”

Peering around, Cinder went stock still when she saw where Glynda was pointing. Beside a Winter Fae, whose ashen white hair glinted with an almost polished shine like that of fine marble, Cinder’s stepmother stood much closer than was prudent in such company. From here she could see the simper painted across Tremaine’s face as lurid as her shade of blush and lipstick, flanked on either side by her stepsisters, whose smiles seemed to be drawn into place with the sharp edge of a pencil.

Quaffing what remained of her wine, Cinder immediately wished she’d gotten more than one glass for herself. “That’s my stepmother.”

Glynda blinked, slow and incredulous. Staring between Tremaine and Cinder, she raised her drink to her lips and said around the rim, “I can see why you joined the Venery.”

There was a hint of understanding beneath all that dryness, something that might have burgeoned into camaraderie if tended.

“Having the barracks at Court is its own reward. Though I suppose you suffer the opposite problem,” Cinder replied, tilting her empty glass to gesture towards the thinning gaggle of Spring Courtiers who continued to linger just at the fringes of their private conversation, persistent and hopeful as ever.

At that Glynda let loose a small snort of laughter, one corner of her mouth curling wryly. There was a moment, a thawing, the unspooling that occurs when necessary social pleasantries at last buckle to reveal a hint of the stranger beneath the facade. The smallest chink in proverbial armour. Cinder watched it unfold with a singular avidity, her eyes honing to points like awls or speartips, eager to find the gap, close the space, make the kill.

Before she could speak however, there came a sudden biting voice and the heavy sound of boots across the ground. “Cinder!”

Face composing itself into a blank indifferent expression, Cinder turned to find Lord Altan storming towards them, his face a black thundercloud of fury. Beneath lowered brows, his eyes glared, fierce and amber, his hair a wild mane of pale stained ivory in harsh contrast to his dark skin.

“My Lord Altan, what can I do for you?” Cinder asked, and though her voice was calm her hand clenched into a fist around the slender glass in her hand until she could feel it strain in her grasp.

He stopped before her and loomed, tall and sinuous as a panther, and just as deadly, the saffron dyed doublet stretching across his broad shoulders. “I’ve just been informed by a stablehand that my prize purebred stallion was found with its head severed from its body, nowhere to be found.” Taking a menacing step forward until they were barely a handwidth apart he continued, “Moreover that he saw you last leaving the stables.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cinder murmured, meeting his stare with her own, fighting to keep the kindled heat there from flaring too brightly, knowing that they burned like torches. “I was at the stables, yes. But I was tending to the good lady Pursuivant’s mount. Nothing more.”

Lord Altan swung his gaze to Glynda, who stared hard at Cinder. After a long pause, she confirmed, “What she says is true. I was with her, and I saw no mutilated steed.”

“Might I suggest” Cinder reached up and placed her free hand on Lord Altan’s shoulder, a conspiratorial, companionable gesture that immediately disarmed him in all his wrath. “You look into the Herald Porfirio? I know you two had that little--” she fluttered her fingers so that they trilled along the embroidered silk of his doublet, “-- _altercation_ a few years ago. In fact I’ve heard he’s still quite sore about the whole affair.”

The lines of Lord Altan’s broad vaguely leonine features hardened and he seemed momentarily lost in thought, but when he looked down at Cinder again his anger had subsided somewhat. “My deepest apologies for the accusation. I will look into this matter.” With a respectful nod towards Glynda, he removed Cinder’s hand from his shoulder and strode off, pushing through members of the crowd, many of who grumbled and clutched their spilled drinks.

Glynda’s eyes narrowed, and whatever accord they had reached earlier was long gone. “What was all that about?”

Cinder thumbed at a crack in the frame of the glass in her hand, waving over another Faunus to drop off the glass on a broad copper tray. “Court politics, my lady Pursuivant. Think nothing of it.”

Before Glynda could press for the truth, two Acolytes -- one of Spring, the other Autumn -- called the feast officially to a start, blaring their trumpets festooned with cloth emblazoned with each Court’s heraldry. Immediately everyone began to mill about in the direction of their assigned seats, and when the peal of the horns faded, Cinder swept into a low bow with a flare of her red cape, far too low for their difference in rank, making Glynda’s brows furrow in irritation.

“Until next we meet,” Cinder said, walking away before Glynda could reply, leaving her staring after her.

Crossing to her table with the rest of the Venery across from the royal seats, Cinder sat herself next to Cythera, their thighs pressing briefly together beneath the wooden table draped with a rich length of burgundy cloth. From the kitchens, the legions of Faunus came bearing platters laden with succulent viands for the Autumn Fae, crisp-skinned fruits for the Spring Fae, an assortment of food from every spectrum to appeal to the senses.

“How did it go?” Cythera asked slyly as the Faunus lay the platters along the tables. She nodded towards Glynda, who had taken her seat at the King of Spring’s immediate left, the monarch whispering something quietly to her as the Autumn King carved the first slice from the steaming pink haunch of a wild boar.

“Just as terribly as you’d imagine,” Cinder lied, pouring a cup of mulled wine from a silver-edged carafe first for Cythera then for herself.

For a brief electric second, Glynda glanced over and their eyes met, before quickly darting away to focus on the Spring King once more. Yet all throughout the rest of the evening, Cinder could feel a familiar barb rake along the base of her neck, their wandering gazes like the prick of a needle across skin.


	3. Chapter 3

 

_[800 years of age]_

High above the Yule Gates towered, a massive arching doorway of twin spires carved with runes that once -- long, long ago -- held meaning, but which had since been forgotten by the living. Every year during Winter Solstice at the peak of the Longest Night, Fae dead would rise from their burial mounds beneath the trees and flock to the Gates, spending the dark equinox singing their unearthly wordless songs while the runes along the Gates glowed, solemn and bright as stars. Some claimed that the dead were reading the runes aloud, that they alone could decipher the spires of pure, graven Dust. The Winter Fae were so accustomed to spirits walking among them every year that they hardly blinked, always vaguely shocked when visitors from other Courts showed surprise or unease; such things were commonplace in a land where ghost-eyed spectres haunted doorways with the same frequency that the Summer-born haunted mead halls.

Cinder had read once -- in a dusty old tome with a creaky spine she had dug up from the bowels of the Royal Archives -- that during the last great war between the Courts, the Winter King had been nigh-peerless on the field. Not necessarily because of his prowess in battle, which was as legendary as any Sovereign’s, but because of the armies he commanded. At a word, the dead joined his ranks in legions, a force like a wave, inexorable as the sea, and all who fell before them rose again only to serve the dread Winter King.

The Annalists wrote of these events in hushed tones, those who had borne witness unable to keep their hands steady, leaving the lines of text smudged in an arthritic, terrified scrawl at even recounting such memories. Though few remained from that time -- save Ozpin and Silberne themselves -- Cinder had no doubt as to the authenticity of these accounts. Being here in the heartland of Winter now was proof enough.

Approaching the Gates, Cinder shrugged her shoulders against the prickle of a chill beneath her cape. The equinox was weeks away still, yet here the cold sucked at the very marrows of living creatures; she could feel the Longest Night’s approach like a resonant hum in her bones. Yet for all that, a decision was made to wear no more than her usual attire, cape embroidered heavily with rich threads and the twin golden wolfshead medallions pinned to her high collar announcing her as more than a mere member of the Venery, but as Grand Mistress of the Hunt. She had detailed the cape herself, twilling the threads with a king’s ransom in amber-coloured Dust that could ignite with a thought. As she walked, her body radiated a constant aura of heat like a brazier so that a flurry of stray snowflakes evaporated into a warm mist upon waxy wings of air.

Just ahead at the base of the Gates, two Faunus were barring a Fae from entering -- servants of the Winter Court if their livery was any indication.

“Listen here, mutt!” the Fae brandished his cane at the two Faunus, who behind their white masks appeared entirely unfazed. “I’m here for the naming ceremony! I was invited!”

One of the Faunus -- with jet black hair that shimmered with green and violet iridescence like a raven’s wing -- uncrossed his arms and took a step forward. His partner followed suit, flexing both hands to reveal fingers tipped with black claws, the guarded pair intent on dragging the intruder bodily away if necessary.

Before they could do so, Cinder stepped up beside the Fae, saying with a gentle yet firm voice, “Is there a problem, gentlemen?”

Immediately the Faunus paused, eyes flicking to the insignia of rank that glittered bright as coins at Cinder’s throat.

“Finally,” the Fae sighed, less out of relief than exasperation, turning to her so that the jaunty feather in his cap caught a clump of snow drifting through the air. “Someone civilized!”

She paid him no attention, keeping her eyes on the Faunus instead. The raven-blooded servant jabbed a finger at the Fae beside her and said, “Messere Torchwick is a known collaborator with criminals. We’re under orders to keep out any unsavoury individuals.”

“ _Unsavoury_?” Torchwick stamped his cane on the ground, a gesture made significantly less imposing by the way it was muffled through a blanket of snow. “I’ll have you know that I’d taste spectacular if brined.”

Cinder continued to ignore his antics. “And if I vouch for him?”

At that the Faunus appeared taken aback, while Torchwick edged towards hopeful, eyes darting slyly between Cinder and the Faunus who obstructed his path.

“You would do this?” the puma-blooded Faunus pressed after a significant thoughtful pause. “Sully your name with his, Your Grace?”

In answer Cinder reached up and grasped Torchwick’s shoulder with one hand, fingers digging into cloth and palm burning with a warning heat so that he shifted uncomfortably, wincing. “I firmly believe that all are deserving of open doors. Equal opportunities, if you will. And should he indulge in any unpalatable activity--” Cinder smiled, sharp teeth glinting, “--then he will answer to me.”

Both Faunus shared a brief considering look, then bowed, moving to stand aside and allow them entry. Not releasing Torchwick, Cinder guided him into the palace, sheathed all in white marble, eidolic and sombre as a mausoleum.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Torchwick began to speak, quick and incessant as they passed through marmoreal halls towards the growing murmur of Court. “Well, today must be my lucky day! After all, it’s not everyday a lowly Autumn Courtier of barely any name gleans the notice of one such as yourself, Your Grace. I owe you a favour, it seems.”

She turned her gaze upon him at last, sharp, discerning, her grip on him still tight enough to make him squirm beneath her molten stare. “I won’t soon forget it.”

For the first time his unerring smirk faltered, and his cunning face gauged her anew. “Something tells me I’m going to regret this.”

Cinder laughed, a rich dark murmuring sound at the back of her throat, no more than a chuckle, and she smoothed her hand down his back to rest amiably at his shoulder blade, fingernails raking at the fibres in his jacket. “On the contrary, it is my sincere hope we discover mutual benefits to this arrangement.” She gave his back a patronising little pat, and with her other hand -- wrapped in a clawed gauntlet -- tugged at the brim of his black hat, straightening it. “Until next we meet.”

As soon as she turned to enter the Court proper, he yanked the hat back to its previous flippant angle, but froze when she paused and looked over her shoulder at him. Before her, the Court could be seen through a narrow arch flanked with alabaster-frosted pillars and, hovering just on the brink of entry, Cinder added as a parting remark, “If you must pursue criminal endeavors during your visit, don’t get caught. Whatever justice the Winter King dispenses, know that the punishment for besmirching my name will be far worse.”

Whatever quip he had in reply she did not linger long enough to hear, instead striding through the ranks of Courtiers assembled in the tall glacial halls of the palace. On most days the Court would brim with the colourless mien of the Winter Fae, themselves akin to ghosts in appearance with their pale detached features, myriad of haughty white and black against a stark monochromatic backdrop. Any splash of colour among the Winter Fae was worn as a political and social statement, both bold and understated all at once, as only the disposition of such people could allow.

On this day however -- the naming day of the Winter King’s first and only child -- colour stained the sprawling palatial halls in broad strokes. Representatives from every Court convened here to witness the naming ceremony of a potential future Sovereign, each foreigner clearly visible around Court in their dress, their demeanor, their very natures. Flecks of autumnal hues scattered all about, the Autumn Fae more at ease around their Winter brethren than Spring and Summer, who gathered round the braziers that burned with blue-tinted fire and rubbed their hands furiously for any trace of warmth the flames produced.

Cinder herself bloomed like a fresh wound, like an altar awash all in red. The air around her faintly shimmered, and as she passed by groups of shivering Summer Fae -- who were each of them bundled up to their eyes in copious furs -- they all seemed to breathe a sigh of fleeting relief, a cloud of steam billowing from their mouths. Her eyes scanned the crowd, slow and roving and restless.

At last she found who she was looking for, hearing that familiar voice before she spotted them. Cythera stood attended by one of her family’s long standing Faunus servants, a slip of a thing with the long silken ears of a tawny jackrabbit whose mask denoted her as head of an estate’s household affairs. When a Faunus of the Winter Court stopped to offer a tray of drinks that smoked -- filled with a liquid that could warm one down to their toes -- it was Adel’s servant who took the drink and handed it over, which Cythera received without a second glance, continuing to chat easily with the other two Fae, both of whom Cinder knew only by the reputations that preceded them.

“Ah, there you are!” Cythera, spying her across the way, waved Cinder closer through the achromic crowd with her free hand, her other balancing the crystal glass. “Cinder, these are the friends I was wanting you to meet.”

Joining the oblong circle of Cythera’s coterie, Cinder fluttered her fingers in a soothing gesture to Adel’s Faunus, who had immediately begun to hail the cup-bearer back towards their group for their latest arrival. Speaking to the two Fae, Cinder inclined her head. “A pleasure, my lord, my lady.”

Akiko Daichi mutely returned the gesture, hands resting comfortably at the hilts of the twin daggers that jutted beneath each arm, their intricate sheathes criss-crossing her back, and yet the stance was anything but relaxed. She had the look of a coiled serpent, sunning its scaly backs with an air of lazy indifference, aloof and sharp-eyed. The blades were the most ornate part of her attire, gleaming a keen rose-bronze among the fawn and sorrel folds of her fine but otherwise plain clothing -- fitting for the scion of a family best known for its smithing. The Daichi clan had provided the Royal Autumn Guard with their fabled blades for generations, cloaking their secrets of the forge with a draconic silence.

If that wasn’t evidence enough of her skill in hand-to-hand combat, then the rumours were. Murder was almost unheard of among modern Fae, but official duels were sanctioned, and across all four courts Lady Akiko -- no taller than Cinder’s shoulder -- was a renowned duelist, bearing a legacy of bloodshed that stretched behind her for an imperial mile.

While Akiko said no greeting in reply, Lord Raleigh Alistair placed a dark, scar-grizzled fist over his heart and gave a small bow. “Mistress Fall.”

Cinder made a soft chiding noise at such formalities. “Shush, Lord Alistair. I’ll not stand for decorum; if Lady Adel wishes for us to be friends, then friends we shall be.”

His eyes -- one black and glittering as a polished riverstone, the other a blind milky white from a long jagged scar that carved down one side of his face like a narrow pink length of rope -- crinkled around the edges in amusement and he straightened. A Lord by his own virtue, he ranked far above her by right of birth and name alone, but that was where his virtues ended. Raleigh Alistair was a known roué, chasing anything with a pair of legs and a smile as quickly as a train of scandal tracked his every move. His hair shone copper-bright, fringe cut at a rakish angle, a similar colour to his changeant silk doublet, shimmering black and bronze with each gesture he made.

For all that, Raleigh was a master swordsman with enough skill and experience tucked away under his belt to give even Lady Akiko pause. At the behest of the King, he trained the Royal Guard of the Autumn Court; people swooned when he flashed his blade as surely as when he flashed a smile.

“I’ve invited everyone to one of my estates for a small fête after the ceremony,” Cythera announced with a brush of her hand along the plates of armour encircling one of Cinder’s arms, ruby-enameled and gold-trimmed to match her Huntsman’s cape. “It’s located just at the border. You absolutely must come.”

“The last time I attended one of your so called ‘little parties,’ the wine-cellar was drained dry and I didn’t leave your Summer estate for almost a week.” Cinder reminded her, giving Cythera a long pointed teasing look. Throughout the years they had remained sporadic lovers, and on that particular occasion, a great deal of their time hadn’t been spent far outside the confines of a bed.

Raleigh’s eyebrows rose and he said dryly to Cythera, “And why didn’t I receive an invitation? I feel jilted.”

Cythera raised a finger, giving a single admonishing wag in his direction. “You were too busy overseeing the training of new recruits. And I’d already invited Lady Darcy.”

The name was noted as Raleigh gave a delicate clearing of his throat. “A fair point.”

From what Cinder had heard along the grapevine, Lady Darcy’s Heir -- an infant by the name of Gwendolen -- was of questionable lineage. Likely Lord Alistair’s doing, if this interaction was any indication.

“A _week_?” Akiko repeated incredulously with the faintest of smiles -- the most expressive Cinder had seen her yet -- and she thumbed the smooth pommel of one dagger.

“Let it not be said that I don’t entertain guests to the fullest extent of my abilities,” Cythera replied, somehow managing to sound prim even around a knavish grin.

“No one could ever accuse you of such a thing,” Cinder murmured.

Noticing the open amusement in Cinder’s tone, Cythera insisted, “Then you’ll attend?”

Cinder opened her mouth to accept -- she almost always accepted Cythera’s invitations, be it for her political schemes, her own personal pleasures, or both; the two in this case often overlapped -- when an Acolyte’s trumpet breached the Court’s chatter, calling for silence and heralding the approach of the Sovereign and his Consort. Falling quiet, the group along with the rest of the Court turned in the same direction.

On a balcony overlooking the congregation, far above and removed from the lesser Lords and Courtiers, the King of Winter made his appearance, followed closely by the Royal Consort, Aurora. Truth be told Cinder was glad he stayed so far aloft, away from her. Even through her Dust-imbued cape from where she stood -- where she could cast a stone and not hope to come anywhere near striking distance -- she could feel the drop in temperature that plunged the entire hall into a preternatural darkness as all the torches and braziers flickered and dwindled to weak sparks.

Silberne Schnee was known by many names, but hardly any called him by that which he was given at birth. _The Old Man in White. The King of Souls._ He was synonymous with his very season, and to speak his name was to invite early frosts to the fields. In the dim lights of the grand hall he seemed almost translucent, the hard, glittering and crystalline quality of his skin through which Cinder could see his veins pumping sluggish silvery ichor. His eyes scanned the audience, pale shards of blue that took too long to blink, the mantle of his gaze heavy as an avalanche. Every person he surveyed gave an involuntary shiver, feeling the cold scour their bones, Cinder among them.

When he spoke, his voice was the crack of resin that ruptured bark and cleaved trees in twain. “You come today to my Kingdom to witness the naming of my daughter, first of my blood.”

As he mentioned the child, Aurora with her skin like moonlight given shape, stepped forward to stand beside him, holding the girl in her arms, swaddled in so much white samite, cooing soft as a cygnet. Not a newborn, but young enough to still struggle to lift her head, for were she to receive it any sooner the weight of such an Inheritance would surely cripple her for life.

Without looking over, Silberne reached out and laid a hand at the child’s brow. “I name her Winter for the Kingdom she shall rule, and I hereby grant her my Inheritance, the lands, the powers, and the sovereignty which that entails. By the Word of the Law and by your attestation, it is so.”

The gravity of his proclamation trembled in the air with all the taste of an incipient storm, the quick and silent void that chased thunder, during which the child cried, the only noise her bawling as the magic of his touch and his words sank into her tiny frail body. The Court watched with rapt intensity as the infant’s squalls of pain increased in volume, all holding their breath when the wailing smote a gut-wrenching pitch, and for a moment Cinder thought that surely the child would thrash and flail and perish until at last the cries faded. When Silberne removed his hand, her brow shone briefly with purest white, a flash of quicksilver that vanished as soon as it had appeared.

Cinder had never seen a ceremony performed with such brevity, but what the Winter Fae lacked in extravagance they made up for in raw cruel power. A frisson that had naught to do with the cold shot through her limbs, eroding low and warm and thrilling at the base of her spine like a hunger -- one she knew all too well. Sovereigns walked the earth like titans, singular, peerless, while their subjects toiled in the dirt for scraps. All the petty squabbles of Court life seemed that much more insignificant in the face of a lineage so wholly powerful that even naming an Heir threatened to kill its intended successor.

Fortunately many others in the crowd bore similar glazed expressions, and Cinder’s distant stare went unnoticed. It was only when the King and his Consort retreated from the hall to the depths of the palace and the pale fires reared their heads once more, that a dazed murmur struck up among the congregation once more.

“Well, that was certainly something.” Cythera blinked as though through a glare of unrelenting sunlight before giving a small laugh. “But my question remains unanswered. Cinder?”

Cinder swallowed, still staring at the now empty balcony, and on her tongue she could taste the vestiges of the King’s Inheritance like the breath from an open tomb. Shaking her head clear, she turned to Cythera and the others who were looking at her expectantly but not at all suspiciously -- she was, after all, the youngest and seemingly the most impressionable; to be hypnotised by a display of the Winter King’s power could be attributed to youth.

As she did so, gathering herself to reply, out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a glimmer of emeralds, a gleam of spectacles, a familiar head of pale golden hair framing severe features -- a sight she had not seen for some years, but one she would be hard pressed to forget.

_Glynda._

“Of course.” Revealing nothing, Cinder placed her full attention at Cythera’s feet with a dazzling smile. “But I must attend to another matter presently. Time permitting, I will meet you at your estate later.”

“As you like. Alva will wait for you at the Gates with a coach.” Cythera snapped her fingers, and the Faunus at her side bowed low in confirmation.

“Don’t keep us waiting too long, or Cythera will have to entertain us with stories of your _escapades_.” Lord Raleigh teased, earning him a firm yet amiable elbow to the gut from an otherwise expressionless Akiko.

Rather than accept aloud, Cinder inclined her head in a gracious gesture which all three Fae returned, before turning heel and departing without another word. Scanning the Court, the many Lords and Ladies and members of station that milled about, Cinder dodged between the gaps with a fluid seamless ease, red cape flaring out behind her in a shimmer of heat. When at last she found her quarry again, a slow smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

She pursued.

\--

Incessant idiocy was a highlight in every major court function, but centuries of exposure had left Glynda’s tolerance lessened rather than bolstered.

As Grand Seneschal, she was privy to every ounce of gossip that flitted from Spring’s open parlours to the shuttered halls of Winter, frigid and narrow but no less prone to whispering about the constant rise and fall of their fellow nobles. More so, the position meant her duties fell in line with parrying most rumors, keeping them from reaching Ozpin’s ears. Petty insults and squabbles were a waste of his time, but she had to cast a very wide net in order to divine legitimate threats from drunken boasting, and there was only so many cases that Glynda allowed herself to pass down to underlings, unable to trust that they would remain as stalwart against bribery and blackmail as she would on her own.

For all the pomp and circumstance surrounding Silberne’s heir, the solemn mood vanished once Winter was properly claimed by her court. Those from Summer-side who had no other plans outside the realm were already cracking open casks in celebration, pouring a blood-thick brew into ivory cups until they overflowed, and the promise of any kind of heat -- no matter how false -- summoned everyone with a free hand to grasp at it.

Summer Rose herself, the youngest monarch of the four, was standing in the center of a growing crowd, loyal courtiers offering wineskins and minor gifts passed on from suitors that were stalking her personal circle with the hunger of the most desperate predator. It left a sour taste in the back of Glynda’s mouth; anyone who could claim a single drop of blood from Rose’s lineage was now bearing down, currying favors and tugging at the cloak of those who could push a viable partner into the Queen’s arms. Any person that could give Rose a child would do, securing an entirely new royal bloodline. It was a chance that hadn’t been presented in more than a thousand years.

Yet she showed no interest in any of them, content in the full flush of her youth without seeking any sort of permanence. That, at least, Glynda took some measure of amusement from.

“It’s the saddest mating dance in four courts.” A voice commented from behind her, and she turned on her heel, resisting the urge to make a fist. “Silberne took centuries before even considering a bride, and those Summer whelps think they have a chance to claim a Queen without a fight.”

“Ironwood.” Glynda was well aware of his given name, but declined to use it. His rank was nebulous enough in the Winter Court to prevent such a thing from making insult. “I thought you would still be perched in the high halls with your men to guard the king.”

Amusement tugged at the edge of Ironwood’s mouth, offering a tight crescent of white teeth. “Were there any real threat to Silberne, you and I both know the Royal Guard would have very little chance at stopping it. Death itself will have to have a personal conversation with him in order to even make the attempt.”

It was then that Glynda saw the second glass secreted in his other hand, the one forged from silver and steel, pulsing with lines of Dust that allowed individually sculpted joints to move and bend with the same ease as flesh. That was the least of the damage done, the rest concealed behind the tailored lines of his uniform, but everyone born in the last millennium knew that the sacrifice had come from protecting the Winter Queen’s life, and the debt owed to him for saving Aurora from unquestionable slaughter meant Ironwood would have Silberne’s ear for the rest of his life. Such could be considered a boon or a curse, but the darker rumors surrounding the man’s private guard left Glynda uneasy.

“My apologies, it looked like you needed a drink.” The wine was offered, and she regretted having no real reason to refuse it. “Have Ozpin and Ambrose left Spring and Fall to entertain themselves tonight?”

Glynda sipped slowly, the sharp chill of whatever fruit the Winter Court crushed and fermented making the back of her teeth ache. “I would never claim to know the priorities or intentions of the Autumn King.”

“Nor would anyone, I suppose. His Knight is a wizened thing, and there is yet no wife to give him a proper heir. The fortunes of Autumn could change in an instant.” Eyes like blue glass flickered towards Summer and her coterie, their laughter and rambunctious joy starting to reach its peak. “Have you seen to such matters yourself?”

Now she wanted to gag. “Excuse me?”

“Marriage.” Ironwood said simply, as if the proposition was something simple like which earrings went with a particular dress. “For all my years in court, I’ve never seen so many bloodlines on the edge of being severed. Many families have been content to keep all they have for themselves rather than passing on generations of power. Even your father waited quite a span of years before deciding to have you.”

”He waited to find a woman that he loved.” Glynda ground out the words from between her teeth, scouting out how best to escape this conversation and evade all like it in the future. “Do you mean to imply my blood should return to Winter’s side as well?”

His next smile was wrought from a mask of kindness, but did little to extinguish the glimmer of ambition reaching that unblinking stare. “Any child of yours would belong to Spring, Glynda. What it might mean for diplomacy, were you to remain in Ozpin’s graces, is another matter entirely.”

“My respect for your court aside, Ironwood, you will find yourself left wanting.” Glynda drained the last of the glass in one swallow and cast it to the floor, ensuring the force was enough for it to shatter. A pair of servants immediately rushed from where they lay in wait to clean up the mess, distracting Ironwood with apologies and a brush over his boots.

She darted into the first open hallway, weaving through doorways and under a dozen heavy and carved arches until the formal silks girding the floor against dirt and wear became polished marble. By all technicalities, remaining in this part of the court without a Winter escort was a breach of protocol, but Glynda needed a moment that was solely to herself, without guards and whispers and thrice-damned royalty dictating every step taken, each syllable uttered. In the silent chill, deep breaths were taken, filling her lungs with that immortal stillness -- peace.

The ring of glass on stone shattered her sanctuary as soon as it had come, and Glynda bled the emotion from her face before turning around, all doubt and feeling quenched under the threat of observation. Golden eyes drew her in, somewhat familiar, and the matching medallions pinned to a crimson collar confirmed where, metal wolf’s teeth blared in blatant aggression. That a new Grand Mistress had been appointed to the Autumn King’s Venery was a fact she had known, whispered at some point or another, but Glynda hadn’t caught the name bound to the title until now.

“I see I’m not the only one who has already tired of these festivities.” Cinder’s steps forward were unhurried, closing the distance between them by inches. “Even my host and friends have abandoned the court for revelry. Imagine how much they would be drinking if the child had died instead.”

A morbid observation, but accurate enough. “I remember you from the stable. Becoming head of your fellows has done little to file your fangs.”

“Quite the opposite, or else I would be unfit for duty.” Then Cinder paused, fingers pressed against her mouth and failing to stifle a laugh, the sound rich and warm, too warm for these empty halls. It filled them, threatening to warp and shatter from the dissonance. “Do you still think me rude and unruly when you were the one who mistook me for a servant? My lady Seneschal, you wound any sense of pride I can summon.”

“What do you _want_?” Glynda hissed, patience frayed too deeply for this game. “You have risen in prominence, but not yet above me, and I have no favors for you to eat from my palm. There is nothing to be bargained.”

Full lips pursed, approximating a pout. “Nothing at all?”

“State your intentions or leave my sight.” It snapped off her tongue as an order, and somewhere amidst rage, Glynda realized she was now standing close enough to feel Cinder’s low exhale given in turn. “Now.”

“Only the pleasure of your company, Seneschal.” Forge-bright eyes lowered, offering a split second of acquiescence. “It is the duty of spring to draw us away from winter, is it not?”

  
“As much as it is your duty to shepherd the dying into the bitter cold.” Such formality could almost be flirtation, were either of them poets; Glynda was quite accustomed to the irony of not enjoying such flowery terms. “You would not survive my company, Huntress.”

Delight ignited in Cinder’s stare, much to her frustration. “You cannot whisper such a challenge to the air and see it unmet. I did not learn under the hand of my predecessor to flee the hunt simply because my quarry shows its teeth.”

“I’ve seen those you keep company with.” Autumn nobility without question; some of the oldest family names that the court had ever had cause to inscribe in bloodline records. “There is no comparison between us.”

One dark, curious brow arched. “Simply because you belong to Spring instead? That presents no threat in and of itself.”

The lazy confidence blooming in her eyes vanished when Glynda seized her wrist, squeezing tight enough to grind bone against bone. Be it arrogance or ignorance, the other courts often forgot what strength swelled in Spring-born veins, the well of new life that filled itself over and over without end. Even when the wild months of summer called, there was an eternal spring left untouched, standing fast for another turn of the seasons to come. So her grip pressed in until Cinder’s wrist was at the point of buckling, the pulse there jumping against her palm in a constant, desperate flutter as flesh strained and tendons ached.

“This is a breach in protocol--” Cinder gasped, voice honed to a pained edge, gilded with it.

“I think your King would forgive me for teaching you a lesson about challenging those above you so freely.” A slow twist locked Cinder’s elbow, holding it so stiff that another strike would snap it apart like kindling. “Kneel.”

She watched the struggle play out with dispassionate eyes, minute turns back and forth seeking a way to break the hold, but it only drew more bruises to the surface. Of course, Cinder could unleash any magic she possessed in an instant, cast Dust on the ground to summon flame or some sort of weapon, but doing so in a foreign court was asking for immediate execution, even if provoked. By mere physical presence, Glynda outmatched her utterly, and could not prevent the glow of pleasure settling in the very center of her belly when Cinder’s knees started to give, sinking down inch by reluctant inch. Ironwood’s assertions were irritating at best and insulting at worst, but this was a true provocation, met and conquered.

“Three hundred years is long enough to learn, is it not?” Glynda watched with satisfaction as a tremble climbed up Cinder’s arm, quaking all the way to her shoulder. “Truly, I don’t care about your rank or your name. Your blood could belong to anyone, but mine came from the first to ever be spilled upon the name of Spring, sacrificed to the earth by sovereigns and soldiers. I will not be taken lightly by anyone or for any reason. Am I understood?”

“Do you think yourself superior, then?” The words crackled with anger, coming from a deep place in Cinder’s throat.

“No.” Her honesty was instinctive, but Glynda saw true surprise play across the other woman’s face before it was buried out of sight. “But if you disrespect me, if you think I am merely another pawn to be coddled and pushed around someone’s court, then I will see that mistake corrected, whether eyes are upon us or not.”

“I thought you would dismiss me again,” Cinder whispered, biting back a gasp of pain, “that I’ve truly drawn your attention is an unexpected blessing.”

Something about the comment left Glynda wanting to laugh, if only for the sheer audacity in pressing her motives still. Her hand relaxed without fanfare, Cinder’s wrist slipping from her grasp and the arm itself falling like lead. Cinder groaned, grabbing at her shoulder as feeling returned past the constant pricks of pins and needles, a deep red outline of Glynda’s hand marring her skin, every finger possessing its own bruise. The damage was nowhere near permanent, of course, but it was visible, and that in and of itself could be humiliating for someone attempting to play the games of power while remaining untouchable.

“I’m not seeking a companion, nor a sycophant, nor a rival.” Glynda flexed her fingers, the heat from Cinder’s flesh remaining branded into that same palm. “And thus you would have little to gain by continuing your pursuit.”

“That you remain so elusive is half the draw for almost all that chase you.” With surprising steadiness, Cinder rose to her feet, but made no move to retaliate. “But it is not what lured me here.”

Nothing in the words rang as a lie, but Glynda still distrusted the assertion. “What did, then?”

“I merely wished to see what you would do without the court’s leash to stop you.” Turning her wrist this way and that, Cinder smiled, and left Glynda curious if she had a taste for the agony in some way. “My curiosity is chastened, but not satisfied.”

“Then my next lesson to you will be exercising patience.” She turned, putting her back to Cinder in a show of blatant disregard and starting to walk back down the hall towards where the others would still be gathered. “For I have no intention to sate that particular hunger.”

No answer came, and no footsteps followed her out into the open. If nothing else, Glynda decided the night had ended up somewhat better than expected.

\--


	4. Chapter 4

_[950 years of age]_

 

Like overgrown, unshorn, untended flotsam amassing at a river mouth that longed for nothing more than to burn, the desire came. Layers upon layers drooping, falling in sheets of old brown and grey kindling from the wind-battered boughs, ready for the wayward spark, the strike of flint like a blow across burnished armour. The way it grew – a tangled wreath of thorns that pricked beneath skin whenever she walked, whenever she moved, grimacing through a wince as if flinching from sudden glancing spears of sunlight. It kept her warm in a month of muggy bloom when the Spring air very nearly stifled, a fleece clipped then scraped and crushed just on the edge of heat until all the lanolin coated her hands – a raw and carded, buttery and half-melted sort of desire.

Beltane was Glynda’s least favourite time of year, a time when bulls lowed incessantly in the fields, bellowing the hours away until she could hardly sleep at night for the noise. Bone-weary and sleep-deprived, magic thrumming, building, roaring in the pit of her stomach, Glynda clenched her teeth and spent the weeks, the days, the individual moments leading up to the Spring Equinox in a mounting state of equal parts irritation and arousal.

The unwavering blade of time ploughed ever on, breaking through the loam of tasks leading up to the festival, and Glynda tried to bury herself in mundanities. As Grand Seneschal of the Court, nobody even thought to question when she thrust herself upon every available management position she could find, overseeing preparations, logistics, decorations, invitations to the other Courts; she was a grim-eyed, glowering, ubiquitous presence where most others grew increasingly lethargic and absent.

At one point, two nights before the Equinox, Glynda had poured over mounds of documents in her private quarters, windows open to admit the balmy breeze and the low mournful moaning of cattle in rut, as well as what sounded like a few neighbors on the floor above her enjoying themselves before the festival even began. Spectacles glinting in the dim candlelight, ink glistening richly upon the page, Glynda’s hand had clenched into a fist around the carved wooden stylus in her grip as the couple above her reached yet another crescendo. The magic had given an uncomfortably warm pulse in her chest, flaring hot and bright, and immediately the stylus had erupted into fresh growth in her grasp, new green shoots splitting the grain and ripping to birth in glory.

She’d tossed the useless thing aside in disgust and rooted around for another, grumbling curses under her breath all the while.

Now Beltane was upon them and there was no more work to be done. She had overseen the hanging of every soft-paper lantern, every bright streamer; she knew the details of this festival down to the last hors d’oeuvres, and yet she wanted nothing to do with it. Only with great reluctance did she attend, fully committed to being seen for an obligatory half-hour or so before making her customary disappearance. She never stayed for more than that and everybody knew it – even Ozpin, who never once teased her on the subject as he was wont to with other topics.

The King of Spring himself was always flagrantly absent from Beltane, and with good reason. Even standing beside him at various times in the week leading up to the festival had been nigh unbearable, making Glynda’s hands visibly shake. During her time as a Pursuivant, she had learned that a Spring Sovereign’s largest problem lay in not too few Heirs – as was the usual case – but too many. Spring-Blooded Fae were naturally more fertile than most, and a Sovereign’s family tree tended to sprawl in all directions, careening out in a massive fan that muddied direct lines of ascension, resulting in more civil wars fought than any other Court’s history could boast. Ozpin excluded himself from that tradition by making himself scarce during the times his magic was at its most potent. Still, Glynda – among many others – had their suspicions of unnamed Heirs that would most likely never be revealed or take the throne.

Hovering along the outer fringe of the Spring Court in full bloom, the festival attended by every manner of Fae and Faunus – for one night a year no longer restricted to mingle due to rank – Glynda watched as a flock of younglings circled the maypole. They each held a long tasseled ribbon in one hand, the strands a gyre round and round until they folded upon themselves like the wings of a many-coloured bird darting into the first patches of starlight along the dusky night sky. The sounds of revelry mingled in the air alongside the heady scent of cool wine tapped from aged oaken barrels, and the cheery jangle of reed flutes, drums, and gut-string lutes bound with glossy shells from the western shores of the Summer Kingdom.

In sharp contrast to the jovial song and the flock of dancing at the centre of Court, the line of Glynda’s mouth held a sour twist. She fiddled ceaselessly with her wrists; she missed the vambraces she’d worn there as a Pursuivant, the constant weight and heft of armour sheathing her from wrists to elbows. A Seneschal had no need for such things, and now her only indication of rank was the samite surcoat richly embroidered with the crown of her family name until the fabric hung heavy across her shoulders. Where most had done away with their formal garments for the evening, Glynda wore hers like a shield. Others looked at her, saw her expression, her strict attire, and immediately hurried along on their way – if for no other reason than to escape her glare.

“You look like you could use this.”

With a furrowed brow, she turned to see who had addressed her, only to find Summer Court royal blood – Taiyang Xiao Long – holding out a goblet of wine in one hand, the other holding a goblet for himself. The young princeling had a certain energy about him, a warmth she could feel hovering in the air over his skin. Bright and golden, the heat was itself a living surface, nearly wet, like the haze of light over sand.

Glynda’s lips thinned as she scowled down at the proffered drink, but after a moment she sighed in resignation and took it, careful so that their fingers did not brush during the brief interaction. Even so, her palm returned damp with sweat. A prince he may have been – and it would not do to refuse him simple pleasantries – but every touch, regardless of its source, sent a thrill skittering through her like the scrabble of desperate animal claws over unvarnished wood.

In truth, alcohol was probably the last thing she should have been partaking in – lowered inhibitions at a time like this could lead to regretful situations – yet Glynda took a grateful sip with a tautly murmured, “Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Please,” he held up a hand to his chest. “Call me Tai.”

At that her eyebrows shot upwards, and she had to hide her shock by burying her nose in a goblet. She’d heard that the Summer Princeling was bold, but she hadn’t expected him to be quite so forward, even on Beltane. For all that he stood a respectful distance from her; just far enough away that she could breathe without having to clench her jaw; just close enough that they could be considered occupants of the same companionable circle by passersby.

“You know, for all your disdain of the revelry, you do throw a fantastic party.” He said, watching her closely over the rim of his cup as he took a long draught. His eyes glinted like sunlight glancing over deep waves.

Glynda did not take another sip, instead tilting the delicate earthenware goblet so that the wine-dark tides within circled dangerously closer and closer to the flared brim. Finally she admitted, “The week leading up to Beltane is always a hassle, and – well. Organising the festival is something to do, at least.”

“If only all your kin were so dedicated to the festivities,” he quipped with a wink, nodding towards a group of Spring-blooded Fae – counting seven or eight – lying sprawled across one another upon the ground among the gentle roots of one of the  many trees that flourished around the Court.

At that, Glynda snorted and replied dryly, “Oh, if there’s one thing I don’t doubt about my kin, it’s their dedication to the Spring Equinox.”

As if on cue, out of the corner of her vision she spied an adventurous trio stealing themselves away from prying eyes. Later in the night, most would do away with the notion of privacy entirely.

“Well, since your own dedication is so staunch, surely I can entice you into a dance.” Taiyang put his cup down on a nearby table, and held out his hand.

For a moment Glynda just stared at him in complete disbelief, leaning away slightly and biting back a splutter as though he had thrown the wine in her face. Just a few years ago she could remember seeing him among those courting Summer Rose at Winter’s naming ceremony, yet now here he was. A dance was by no means a proposal of marriage, but he would have undoubtedly contemplated the benefits of a union between them, as so many had done before him. Either that or he only sought to spend a tempestuous evening with her, though for that sort of thing most people preferred to pass an eventful night with a member of the Wild Hunt. No Court affiliations meant no strings attached – usually.

Glynda knew without having to check that she hadn’t spent the self-designated amount of time being seen to attend the festival. She could have refused. She could have simply walked away.

Gritting her teeth, she placed her own goblet aside and said firmly, “One dance. And then I shall retire for the evening.” When his charming smile broadened, she added with a snap, “That is by no means an invitation!”

In response, Taiyang bowed his golden head as though thoroughly chastened. “Of course. I would not be so bold to presume.”

“Yes, you would,” she sighed, and he at least had the decency to stop that infernal grinning, if only for a moment.

It took every drop of willpower she possessed to hold back the involuntary shiver that coursed through her when she took his hand. Taiyang could have been anyone, she reminded herself sternly as he guided her to the dancefloor. He could have been anyone and the reaction would have been the same. A few murmurs accompanied their approach, various members of the assembled Courts watching them take their place among the other partners and begin to dance. Such a pairing – the prince of Summer and the scion of Spring’s oldest name – would spread a wildfire of plots and machinations across all four Kingdoms.

If nothing else, at least Glynda could track where such whispers led, revealing channels of spies and communication. And perhaps, she hoped, the proposals for her hand would ease somewhat. Any reprieve was one she would snatch at gladly.

Wooden, Glynda moved through the steps, allowing Taiyang to whisk her along through a simple waltz. By no stretch of the imagination could he be considered the best of dance partners – on one occasion he tread on her foot – but his hand remained firmly fastened at a respectable height on her waist, which was more than she could say for some on a night like this; a few other pairs partaking in the waltz had hands in places that would normally be considered utterly indecent. Glynda’s eyes were scanning the other nearby dancers with distaste when she saw her.

At the very back of the crowd watching the dancefloor, Cinder stood. The flare of that red cape, the threading of her doublet, the wolfshead medallions snarling at her throat – unmistakable. That familiar amber gaze cut like a knife, like a spade across the distance between them, and the instant their eyes met Glynda felt unearthed.

Taiyang spun her around in a circle, and though Glynda could no longer see her, Cinder was far from lost in the crowd. The heated edge of her stare bore between Glynda’s shoulder blades, peeling back skin and cloth like a rind. Taiyang’s hand had not moved, his whole demeanor remained unchanged, yet suddenly now Glynda could feel his handprint above her hip like a cattlebrand. Before she was able to contain it, bend it to her will, but now it spilled over, lust like a burst of wild growth, uncontrollable. She was a pine, a fresh green young pine that bled its sap when hewn, great cloven pieces shunting off at every angle; she felt desire like the bite of a double-headed axe and the long handle was slick in her hands as she swung and swung and –

With a gasp, Glynda pushed Taiyang away, sending him reeling back into another couple. He barely avoided the collision before sprawling to the floor, his expression one of shock and utter bewilderment. People on the dancefloor began to stop and stare at the commotion, and all the while Glynda’s chest heaved, eyes wide and darting wildly along the outskirts of the crowd for that presence like a forest fire, but the only smoke she saw was that from the tops of candles and paper lanterns.

“What’s wrong–?” Taiyang started, staggering to his feet, but stopped when Glynda lurched back.

“I’m–” she stammered. Her throat was choked, clogged through as though with ash, and she clenched her hands into fists to stem the uncontrollable tremble there. “My apologies, Your Highness.” She bowed hastily at the waist. “If–If you will excuse me. I’m not–I don’t feel like myself.”

With that she fled, pushing through the curious onlookers. Heart racing in her chest, an incessant bruit that echoed down her very fingertips, Glynda stumbled in the direction of her private quarters as quickly as she could in the hopes that there she would find some respite. Lungs burning, she jumped at every shadow like a hart at every wayward crunch of branch and leaf underfoot, and still Cinder was nowhere to be seen.

–

There were few greater pleasures than a plan being well-executed.

In all hunts of legend, skill was always of import, but luck was what turned impressive acts into ones of glory, and the fortune of good timing remained nigh-unmatched. Were this any other Beltane, Cinder knew she would be cradling an invitation from Cythera in hand, on her way to the sprawling estate where a night of sheer debauchery was to be held, honoring the fertility of Spring while still behind the safety of Autumn gates. She had done so before on countless occasions, even though most of her time was spent on one side of Cythera’s bed rather than seeking out the host of noble strangers who managed to beg, bargain, and blackmail their way into the heart of the party.

This year was different. For more than a decade, it was known a young man was courting Cythera, seeking her hand in marriage, but not even Cinder had paid such rumors any mind until his ring was suddenly accepted, and the noble’s identity revealed. He was no less than the Royal Couturier, whose skillful hands had clothed the Autumn King and his closest kin for more than a generation. Even Silberne’s consort had availed herself of his skill once, presenting herself at the Fall Equinox ball in a state of such refined beauty, the Autumn Court itself gave heed. That Cythera now made him her husband meant she had influence over his famous salon and studios, not to mention that she would arrive at every occasion dressed fine as a Sovereign. It was a bold move, but one Cinder deeply respected.

However, the first Beltane between a married couple was always spent with the company of one’s spouse and no other. While not all sought out children at such an early stage, it was a symbolic joining, a promise that only each other’s company was needed when desire was at its height across the Courts. Cythera’s doors were closed this night, all guests banished, and it provided Cinder a sharp reminder that outside the Adel sphere of influence – in spite of her newly appointed position as the Royal Verderer – she was still considered a low-blooded upstart by the rest of the Autumn nobility.

That was not to say she was forgotten entirely, but Cinder had wanted neither Akiko’s pity nor to pay the price of attending Raleigh’s wild-blooded bash for the simple sake of entertainment. Lord Alistair had an unfortunate habit of ignoring his lesser-ranked conquests after a night of intimacy, and she had a far greater need for his influence than any pleasure a tryst could provide.

Even Tremaine had sent a letter this year in invitation, although it was perfunctory and promised to be little more than a family reunion with comparatively more alcohol. The parchment was burned without ever giving reply; Cinder was far too aware her reputation among the Autumn nobility was predicated on keeping a distance from her own blood as much as possible. While established houses existed almost solely off nepotism, individuals of note who started to privilege lesser-ranked family members often found themselves pushed to the edges of inner circles, if not dismissed entirely.

That was the spark of proper timing, but it was the reminder from a passing courtier that the gates of the Spring Court were open for any to pass on Beltane that turned the curious flicker in the back of Cinder’s mind to blazing, ambitious intent. A few coins passed around confirmed which royal hall Glynda would be attending, obligated by her rank and favor with Ozpin, due to the purposeful absence of the Spring King himself. Cinder paid a stagecoach that looked more sober than most to carry her across the proper boundaries; there were rumors one could ask such a favor of the Wild Hunt on this night, but without any loyalty to Court or title, they could negotiate whatever price they wished for such charity.

It was of no surprise how many bastards resulted in the winter after each Beltane, most of them cast down to a rank barely above a servant, or given no household at all if they had the misfortune of being born a Faunus.

While lust and hunger certainly cut their teeth in the Autumn Court, Cinder could feel the shift in the very air as she stepped out of the carriage. Desire soaked the lands of Spring like a fog, enveloping all who dared to breathe in or take a single step closer. It was thick in her throat, sending a prickle of heat under her clothes like a caress, one that built on itself as she made her approach. Deciding to wear markers of rank had been entirely on purpose – Cinder wanted to make it clear to Glynda that they were of equal authority now, regardless of origin – but had to stifle a hint of regret as the pressure of crushed velvet and silk against her skin was leaving every nerve rubbed raw, providing every temptation to simply rend the fabric in two and bare her flesh.

Considering the bright-eyed looks she was receiving from nearly every passing noble, Cinder had the distinct feeling such a display would welcomed, then hastily taken advantage of. Driving out the distraction with a sharp sigh, she quickened her steps, intent on reaching her destination before Glynda found occasion to leave. That was another truth she had gleaned from tossing coins about the local gossips – despite being Grand Seneschal, Glynda spent less than an hour in the presence of the public every Beltane, which made haste of the essence. What was a hunt without the constant goad, after all?

Passing dozens of musicians and servants, the hundreds feasting and carousing, Cinder found the crowd in the very center of the Court, those who watched dancing pairs meet, part, and when courage arose, went out to seek a partner for themselves. It took a moment for her to recognize Glynda at all, for the last thing Cinder had expected was to see the dour noble in the arms of a Summer-born prince, carrying themselves through a traditional waltz. Taiyang was a young rogue, but not known for his foresight, so she could only imagine his daring flair had drawn Glynda into close company, if not the simple desire to send the Spring Court into a rumor-laden tizzy. Cinder bit the back of her tongue, using the pain to ground herself; it wasn’t as if she had any foundation for jealousy, much less any reason to expect Glynda would fall for such a simple trick.

Then Glynda shoved the prince back with such force he was a tangle of limbs on the floor, dazed and staring at her with nothing short of shock. The crowd was all gasps and whispers, but Cinder suddenly found herself wanting to laugh, giddy at the sight of his brutal dismissal. In the split second it took for Glynda to recover her own faculties, Cinder retreated through the crush of bodies and scanned the room, seeking which halls were truly exits. Down to the marrow of her bones, she knew Glynda would run as she had the night of Winter’s inheritance, isolating herself from the rest of the Court. Now, though, there was a hunger in that ancient blood that had to be sated, and Cinder had every intention of proffering the perfect bait.

The hunt was on.

It was a blinding, heart-pounding chase, one that made Cinder all too aware that the Court was in bloom, thorny vines draping across passages as often as curtains of lush flowers. A few drew her blood in scratches and prickling bites, but she surrendered that cost without care or concern, eyes locked on the figure at the end of a distant hall, breaking out of the celebratory arena and to more private quarters. There were couples – and trios – in various states of copulation along her path, some pressed into the shadows of alleys and others clearly uncaring as breeches were undone openly by lantern-light. It was as if the brambles and flowerbeds themselves were moaning, breathing out heat that left Cinder gasping to tug her collar open, find some relief from the sweat dripping down to the hollow of her throat.

Glynda finally stopped outside a broad wooden door, both hands pressed to the polished surface, its ancient knots and cracks sealed over with veins of gold. The symbol etched over the archway made it clear the room past it was hers and hers alone, but she appeared too winded to open the heavy lock holding the door shut, and Cinder slowed her pace, banishing any sound her boots might have produced until she was in arm’s reach, close enough to strike and savor victory. While Glynda was no hart to be bled dry at the end of her arrows, the thrill was just as sweet, even more so when the prey was rare – unspeakably unique.

“To spurn a prince is just like you.” Cinder began, unable to keep from smiling as Glynda startled at her voice, back straight as a steel rod. “Yet I can’t imagine the reason you’d turn someone so virile away. Unless your tastes bend in a wholly different direction, Grand Seneschal.”

“You.” Those emerald eyes flashed, nearly aglow, and even in the depths of rage, the hunger that emerged from that stare was feverish and feral, contained by rapidly dwindling threads of control. Cinder felt her breath hitch, eagerness slicing right through the cool predatory mask she’d affixed to her expression. “How can you be here?”

“All are welcome in the Spring Court during Beltane.” Despite an attempt to keep her tone light and even, Cinder found herself having to swallow past a dry throat, some wayward shudder creeping up her spine. “And for years, it’s seemed our conversations were interrupted by other matters.”

“Centuries.” Glynda breathed out, one hand clenching into a fist. Her knuckles went bone white, and the scent of iron on the air told Cinder a nail or two had cut deep into the flesh of her palm.

Fresh blood didn’t help the situation; desire coiled in the pit of Cinder’s gut, twisting upon itself in an infinite loop. “Will you turn me away again?”

“Do you think I dismissed you for amusement’s sake?” The question was hissed, practically spit, and when Glynda turned away from the door and took a step forward, Cinder had an alarming realization about the difference in their height. The memory of fingers claiming her wrist emerged, twisting it with impossible strength until she was kneeling, held at that breathless crux of surrender while resisting the urge to cry out. “If I claim you on a night like this, you will _break_.”

“It would be a willful shattering.” Cinder whispered, head tilted up out of necessity, even if it bared the line of her throat. “You have my consent.”

Now Glynda’s gaze was a dark, roiling thing, all the lurid facets of green forced to the edge by blown pupils, the need displayed in flushed cheeks and parted lips. “Do I?”

Cinder had to bite back a moan, stunned at the lust that impaled her like a lance. This was supposed to be her trap, the net seizing around that perfect and infuriating prey, but now she was cornered, brought low by a huntress that weakened her with a look. “Yes.”

All the breath was knocked out of her lungs as Cinder found herself pinned to the door, Glynda’s hands gripping her so tightly that both shoulders were being bruised even under the cushioned protection of her cloak. Stunned and needing air, there was little she could do but shiver and part her lips when those same iron-strong fingers cupped her jaw and drew her into a kiss, the hot pressure of lips and tongue and teeth that left Cinder reeling, as if molten lead had just been injected into her veins. Desire was pouring off Glynda’s skin with the potency of a drug, filling her up, forcing her to breathe it in until Cinder thought she was going to drown in need, clawing at the other woman’s back for any kind of purchase, some balance, some relief.

“More.” Such was the only syllable she could form, one hand fumbling for the golden handle of the door, its shape pressed into the small of her back. “ _More_.”

–

It had been so long.

Decades – no, centuries – of care and restraint, not only for the sake of image but the constant shadow of games and exploitation, where so many who wished for the king’s ear were willing to surrender themselves into her bed. Others still wanted to mark themselves with the aura of her reputation, like the scent of old and royal blood would carry them through the ranks, but the reason mattered not. Glynda had cut off every invitation or suggestion at the root, no matter what cold and cruel words were needed to snuff out such ambition. But despite Cinder’s blatant hunger, it was directed towards matters of Autumn blood, such thirst easily slaked, and what bloomed between them here and now was of a far different cast.

In the seconds after the door was slammed shut, Glynda tore the cloak from Cinder’s shoulders, uncaring that silver fangs were bent or twisted as the clasps were wrenched out of their mooring. If there was any complaint at having it so roughly cast aside, Cinder’s only answer was to tug off her surcoat with matching haste. When the first bit of skin was bared from beneath layers of fabric, she seized upon it, teeth sinking deep into Cinder’s shoulder. It was answered with a gasp, a shudder, nails in the back of her nape, but the low moan that escaped Cinder’s throat soon after was unmistakably one of pleasure. Glynda relented after a moment, not only to strip away the rest of their clothes, but to watch as beautiful, searing red rushed in to fill the mark in Cinder’s skin, just shy of breaking the surface.

The color was a goad in its own way, and in the instant after their boots were kicked aside, Glynda urged her back towards the bed. In such deep fervor, it was less of a shove and more of a sustained push, the need to force Cinder into place just as strong as the urge to touch, revel in the warmth pouring off her body in waves. Perhaps it was a quirk of the Autumn court or simply Beltane’s spread, but Glynda didn’t particularly care to divine the source as she drank in the sight of Cinder pressed against the sheets, a bright jewel in the middle of clean, cool silk.

She couldn’t recall the last time such lust had ever risen to answer her own, written deep into golden eyes, ripe and eager. The singular mark on Cinder’s shoulder was nowhere near enough, and Glynda moved to remedy the possessive surge taking hold of her blood like an electric shock. Warm bronze flesh was branded with nails and teeth, the pressure of her hands molding palm-sized bruises against Cinder’s shifting hips. With every inch that blossomed red and blue, drawn out into aching purple, Cinder released choked cries and higher, primal sounds, rows of crimson lines raked across Glynda’s skin in glorious retribution.

This time when they kissed, Glynda pressed her thigh up and between both of Cinder’s, and the pressure sparked a frisson of slick, wanton heat. For a moment she could barely breathe for all the desire that simple contact wrought, the needs of mind, body, and nature itself intersecting in one overwhelming wave. Yet it was something that could be ridden rather than locked away and ignored, dismissed by her own touch. Teeth scraped the bounty of Cinder’s lip as Glynda allowed her hands to slip lower, cupping the soft swell of both breasts and their hardened peaks, and Cinder gave in to the demanding weight behind her fingers with a shiver from head to toe, hips rocking forward to demand even more friction.

There was no room to mock such desperation when Glynda was compelled to claim every inch of skin, chase every needy whimper and throaty growl out of Cinder’s mouth. One arm pressed across her collarbones, pinning Cinder from shoulder to shoulder, and the other fell between waiting thighs, parting open folds already nigh-dripping and flush with arousal. Glynda hesitated for only a second after slipping two fingers inside, watching the heady cocktail of relief and need displayed in that forge-bright stare. Her rhythm wasn’t kind or controlled, but it was in perfect sync with Cinder’s body, urged on by the blunt edge of nails biting half-moons into her back, the moans uttered between her teeth, passed on by every kiss.

How her blood _sang_. There was so much freedom in instinct being allowed to work its will, calling out for a mate and receiving such so vigorous an answer. As two fingers became three, the quick swipe of her thumb against Cinder’s clit earned a tight clench around them and a darkly uttered curse, hissed between ivory teeth with such ferocity that Glynda nearly laughed. The sound bubbled up in her lungs, bright and joyous, and her gaze was locked on Cinder’s sinuous form as she was brought inexorably closer to release. Stamina on Beltane was always a matter of such times achieved rather than any great length, as one coupling inevitably bled over into another and another, until either the sun rose or consciousness itself was stolen away.

A sharp intake of breath heralded Cinder’s orgasm rather than a loud cry, but the reaction Glynda felt was nothing short of explosive. Pleasure was the center of it, yes, but the ecstasy was matched with a riot of magic, leaving her veins aglow with the same fall-born gold limned into Cinder’s eyes as it pulsed through her body. Spring’s call came in turn, a massive and unruly thing that burst from Glynda’s frame like a spirit, emerald light reflecting on their skin until the ebb and flow between them finally eased. However, the fever was far from broken, and having watched Cinder shatter once underneath her only renewed the endless demand to see it happen again and again. Yet Glynda found her own needs were suddenly just as dire – no, more so.

Cinder’s chest was heaving, flushed and shiny with a thin sheen of sweat, fingers locked in a deathgrip at Glynda’s shoulders, leaving deep gouges there. With a roll of her shoulders, Glynda shrugged against the pain, hardly feeling the sting of freshly drawn blood as it scented the air with an iron tang; through the murky haze of lust it only incited her, sharp as the jab of spurs. Her hand was still slick as she removed it from between Cinder’s thighs and reached up to grab fistfuls of that dark loose hair. Beneath her little tremors rolled through Cinder’s body, each minute movement and every wayward twitch of muscle sending a thrill across her own skin, trembling as though flybitten.

Yanking Cinder up by her hair, Glynda brought their mouths together in another hard, bruising kiss. She felt Cinder’s hands begin to roam, fingers curling into claws and raking down her flanks, leaving cruel red streaks in their wake. With a snarl, Glynda broke the kiss to wrench Cinder’s head back in a sharp rebuke, but in response those golden eyes glinted more brightly, watching her with an unbridled hunger.

Cinder’s gaze remained unwavering as Glynda sat upright, knees splayed on either side of her ribcage. Hands scraped up her thighs aiming for the juncture of her legs, but Glynda’s mouth settled into an unyielding line and she gave the back of Cinder’s neck a warning scratch, digging her nails into the sensitive flesh there. Reaching around so that her hands were hooked at the back of Glynda’s thighs, Cinder pulled her forward even as she slid down the mattress until Glynda crouched above her.

With every push and pull, no matter how fiercely Glynda employed force, Cinder seemed only to bend, never to buckle. Magic continued to flood her veins – Glynda could feel it in each and every heartbeat, thrumming beneath the skin until she felt consumed by it – but whereas others would flounder beneath the weight of Spring’s power, Cinder met her blow for blow, never once quailing. It was the appearance of surrendering ground, when in fact anything Glynda took Cinder was only too glad to give.

The first stroke of Cinder’s tongue wrested a gasp from deep in Glynda’s chest, an inhalation trapped in a space behind her sternum as the heat of that touch overwhelmed her, mingling with an ancient carnal power that threatened to overcome her senses. It faded away, the rest of the world, to a dim shadow in comparison, and for the first time Glynda let it. Once she would have clawed it into place, desperate to retain any last remaining scrap of control, but this night she had cast aside even the pantomime of restraint.

Mouth dropping open, eyes furrowing shut, Glynda rocked her hips to the rhythm Cinder set, lower back arching forward to increase contact. Cinder seemed content to keep her on the edge, lapping with slow broad strokes as if savoring every shudder, every uninhibited groan it invoked. Glynda’s teeth clenched in frustration and she heard a growl drop from her as though from a great distance. With a harsh, demanding yank of Cinder’s hair she increased the speed, not pausing as Cinder gasped and winced.

Her knees slipped against the silky grain of the sheets with every fervent thrust until Glynda was forced to stabilize herself with one palm flat against the mattress. Cinder met her pace, fingers digging bruises into her skin as she pulled Glynda down more firmly by the waist. The raw need for release manifested itself in a heat that burned its way through every fibre of muscle until Glynda could feel it coiling at the base of her spine, intense and resonant. When she came it was loudly, hips grinding down as a choked cry was wrenched from her, a high, breathy, desperate note clawing at the back of her throat the same way her hand clawed at the bedsheets.

A flash of emerald light burst behind Glynda’s eyes agan, blinding her until the world was stained rich and verdant and animate. It bled into her skin, casting her in an unearthly glow, and even as it began to fade she knew her gaze would retain a spectral luster for hours yet. When she could see once more, she glanced down to find Cinder watching her with an expression hinging on the border of reverence, and the ardor between them was an eager, trembling, palpable thing.

It was strange to speak such a language without words. Nothing had passed between them inside the confines of her quarters but fragments of names and half-gasped curses, yet Glynda found herself reading Cinder’s body like an open book. Every reaction to her fingers, her tongue, her teeth, and the simple presence of her body spoke volumes. She descended back down the bed in the fog of afterglow, given a very temporary reprieve as her back hit the sheets, now sticking to her skin rather than providing any particular comfort. Cinder stretched beside her with all the grace of a massive cat, and within moments, that was enough of a lure to summon Glynda’s desire again.

The exchange seemed endless, feeding upon itself like they were drawing energy from the leylines of the earth. Laughter and growls rang up to the rafters even when cries of ecstasy were burned from each throat, too raw and exhausted to reach such a pitch. Glynda couldn’t pinpoint the moment that it even reached an end, only that at some point Cinder curled against her, ferocity spent, and sleep took over without the interruption of a single dream.

–

She awoke to a fluttering high against her cheek, soft, papery, yet insistent. With a flinch Cinder’s face scrunched up, and she jerked her head to one side, eyes reluctantly flickering open. Peering blearily up, she found that the source of her troubles was a delicate, white-winged butterfly; she batted it aside with a veiled grunt of distaste and it went bobbing merrily away around the trunk of a tree.

Or – wait. That wasn’t the trunk of a tree at all. It was a pillar of the four-poster bed.

Blinking the dull haze of sleep and sheer physical exhaustion from her eyes, Cinder’s gaze followed the line of the post, the limbs branching organically from it at various angles, blooming with foliage and fresh, bright blossoms.

“What on earth–?”

She tried sitting up, but a sharp gasp escaped her instead as her body seized in complaint, muscles clenching into hard knots, and an ache settling deep in her very bones. With a wince, she fell limply back to the sheets. There she gave an experimental roll of her shoulders, flexing fingers and toes. As far as she could tell nothing was broken, but upon closer inspection she could see the mass of bruises and scratches across her skin, rent by tooth and nail until by all appearances it looked like she had been on the losing end of a fight with a Nevermore. Slowly Cinder edged into an upright position, leaning back against the headboard to gaze at her surroundings.

She remembered coming into Glynda’s personal quarters, but she didn’t remember them looking like this. A carpet of thick dark moss encrusted the floor and partway up the vine-gripped walls, crowded with tined flowers that hung their heads with sparkling dew. New green saplings broke the space in small groves, densely thronging with silver-bellied leaves that shone like moonlight from the light of small drifting fireflies, fragile and radiant as distant stars that glimmered softly and set the room aglow with an eerie yet somehow soothing bioluminescence. Glancing down, Cinder spied a ring of red-capped, white-spotted mushrooms surrounding the bed in a perfect circle. Along the branches of the trees danced a flurry of pale-throated monarchs like the one that had woken her. The air was alive with a lazy wet warmth, a breathing animated mist that clung to the tips of leaves, to the fibrous bed of moss, to porous lamellae.

A groan from beside her dragged Cinder’s attention to the figure sprawled out on the bed. Glynda’s hair was a tangled spelt mess across the pillow, obscuring her turned face. The sheet draped over her waist left little to the imagination, pale against her blemished skin which bore almost as many bruises as Cinder’s own. Nestled between her shoulderblades Cinder could see the golden shimmer of a crown, the Dust-engraved tattoo finely etched into flesh, deep as a scar, akin to Cinder’s own Inheritance mark and in a similar position.

Groggy and sleep-smeared, Glynda rolled onto her back and squinted at Cinder as if squinting at a particularly large growth of mold on her food. “What are you still doing here?”

Cinder scowled at the door roped with vines thick as a guard’s forearms. “Leaving isn’t exactly easy at present.”

Glynda aimed her squint to the door across the room and it was only then that Cinder realised her spectacles were probably lost amidst the idyllic meadow the room had become. “You’re resourceful. I’m sure you could have figured something out. Spirits know you’re persistent enough to break through such paltry barriers without any trouble.”

That being said, Glynda made no move to kick her from the bed. Instead all she did was flop her head back to the pillow and fling an arm over her eyes. When a few exuberant fireflies swarmed her head, she waved them irritably away with a noticeable familiarity and they wove back through the trees and flowers in intricate patterns, brighter than before now that Glynda was awake.

“This happens often, does it?” Cinder asked dryly. The damp insistent haze of Beltane had passed, and yet – while it felt like she could finally breathe properly again, as if a dripping towel that had been wrapped around her head was peeled away to admit air once more – Cinder found herself laving the lines of Glynda’s body with her gaze, drinking in the sight of her. Among the post-coital fog of Spring-blooded magic, surrounded by new life, new growth, wholly in her element, Glynda appeared ineffably radiant.

“It’s usually less –” Glynda waved broadly at the room with one hand, a dismissive gesture, “–intrusive. I can keep it under control most years.”

Cinder let out a derisive snort. “And how do you manage that? Pleasure yourself?”

She had meant it in jest, but a faint flush bloomed in Glynda’s cheeks that did not escape Cinder’s notice. With a broad and wicked smile she rolled onto her side – ignoring the sharp prickle of pain that lanced through her from the motion – and perched halfway upright on her elbow to look down at Glynda, who eyed her with suspicion. “Oh? Do you really?” Cinder teased, voice brimming with vicious delight. “A prince was all but pawing at your door last night; surely there have been others with similar interests.”

“More than I’d care to count,” Glynda grumbled, running a hand through her hair only for her fingers to snag on a snarl there.

Cinder stared at her. She hadn’t expected so honest a reply. “How many?”

Shrugging, Glynda worked through the knots in her hair with a grimace. “Quite a few. There are a handful – perhaps a dozen – every year. Mostly young maidens who would rather not risk an unwanted pregnancy, but are unable to resist Beltane’s particular _charms_.” The last word she drawled, wry. “I try to avoid such propositions by spending as little time as possible attending the festival proper.”

A dozen. Every year. Doing the calculations in her head Cinder’s eyes widened. “You mean to tell me,” she began slowly, biting off each word, “You have literally hundreds of nubile women flinging themselves at your feet, and you choose to spend a night of iniquity and vice alone in your room?”

Tugging her fingers through a particularly stubborn tangle in her hair, Glynda scowled. “Unlike some people, I have better things to do than take advantage of young women when they’re vulnerable.”

Looking down at Glynda –who was unspeakably beautiful, with her sheaf of hair a golden skein over her shoulders, glinting rich and amber-bright in the budding light, sprawled naked across the bed with nary a care – the whole idea suddenly seemed ridiculous, and Cinder could not stop the genuine belly-deep peal of laughter that escaped her.

“Poor Glynda, all alone every year at Beltane when you could have the pick of the crop for your bed. Tell me –” Grinning keenly, showing teeth, Cinder reached out to trace along Glynda’s collarbone, down her sternum and across the swell of a breast. “How did you do it? Was it muffled cries, clenched teeth in the dark, hands between your thighs? Quick and desperate, just to take the edge off, hmm?” Bowing her head so that dark mussed hair slipped across her shoulders and spilled down her back, Cinder grazed her teeth along Glynda’s neck, relishing the sharp hitch of breath she received in return. “Better yet, you should show me. Don’t worry – there are no vulnerable maidens here.”

Glynda glared at her and for a moment it seemed she wouldn’t play along, that she would cast Cinder from her bed, but then she turned her head and brought Cinder’s hand up to give a sharp warning nip to the sensitive skin of her inner wrist before releasing it. Never breaking eye contact, Glynda’s hand moved down to palm her own breast. “And am I not to receive a show as well?”

“Oh, I might oblige.” Cinder’s eyes gleamed bright as molten coins, and she toyed with a lock of Glynda’s hair.

In response, Glynda took one of Cinder’s fingers into her mouth and raked her teeth across it, making her hiss. With Glynda’s gaze on her, Cinder shifted on her side, retracting her hand from Glynda’s mouth. Cinder kicked the sheets off so she could look at Glynda in her entirety, the way her feet spread across the mattress, the way her toes curled along the edge of the sheet as she reached down to touch herself. Had Cinder been paying more attention to anything else instead of focusing the entirety of her attention on Glynda, she might have noticed how the trees clustering around the room seemed to swell, increasing in height inch by inch, new flowers budding and splitting open to reveal their pink and violet throats, streaked with silver.

When Glynda’s mouth fell open in that first gasp, brows furrowed as though in intense concentration, Cinder found herself drawn forward, leaning over to kiss her, to swallow down every last noise. Reaching between her thighs, Cinder felt her own touch with a jolt. The little noises stifled between their mouths that Glynda was making did as much to spur her on as the movement exchanged between them, quickening like a pulse. Every tensed muscle, every involuntary whimper sent the thread of arousal spooling tightly, heat wound up just beneath Cinder’s skin until she could feel the prickle of sweat at her brow, at the crook of her elbows, at the back of her knees.

Glynda’s breathing grew ragged, and one of her legs drew up almost involuntarily as she flung her head back to bite off a high mewling whine. The sight of that as much as the intermittent way her own fingers slipped continually over her clit sent Cinder over the edge. It snuck up on her, leaving her panting and breathless, bowing her head to fix her teeth into Glynda’s shoulder who in turn shuddered. When it was over Cinder was shivering, the taste of copper on her tongue, and Glynda rode out the last vestiges of her orgasm on her own fingers.

Cinder was the first to remove her hand, her fingers curling into a fist where they slicked her palm, and Glynda soon followed suit. Straightening, she reached up – with her clean hand, Cinder noticed, wiping her other off discreetly on her own thigh which was already covered – and propped herself up on her elbows, tilting Cinder’s chin to kiss her.

It was different from last night, this kiss. Tender and – if Cinder had to put a word to it – lazy. Glynda hummed a wordless sound of contentment against her lips, arching her back and pressing forward like a mountain cat basking in a sunny glade.

Somehow that simple kiss left Cinder almost more breathless than before.

Cinder buried her hands into Glynda’s hair, allowing herself just a fleeting moment to indulge in the feeling as she carded through pale strands. Then gripping Glynda’s hair at the base of her skull, harsh and unyielding, Cinder pulled her back, pushing her flat onto the bed where she leaned down and kissed her, swinging a leg over to straddle her. Glynda went willingly, eyes sliding shut as her hands smoothed up Cinder’s thighs, to her waist, to the sweep of her ribcage.

“I must confess myself a touch disappointed.” At that Glynda blinked up at her in confusion, and Cinder smiled, a slow impish smile. “You said you’d break me last night. Yet here I lie, unbroken.”

There was no answering grin, no pull at the corners of Glynda’s mouth, but a flicker of amusement and something else – something familiar and lurid and roiling – scratched in Glynda’s verdant gaze, bright as the strike of flint through shadow. One hand reaching up to cup Cinder’s cheek, trailing down to tilt her chin up, then to fasten around her throat, Glynda stroked against a quiver there as Cinder swallowed in anticipation. “That can be arranged.”

–


	5. Chapter 5

**[1200 Years of Age]**

_Grand Seneschal,_

_Centuries pass and yet you find cause to mock me for that first Beltane together, as if we had not shared so many since. It’s enough to make one think I am some sort of secret affair – the scandal! – being kept under wraps, but a noble of your caliber would never act in such a manner, of course. I remain at your beck and call, although it has been far too long since fate has aligned to let us share the same court. Such is the peril of bearing duties to our respective kings, I suppose, although you maintain a virility to outshine them both._

_Regarding matters of men and kings, I must ask if your father remains ill. You seemed distressed about his health in your last letter, and it pains me to see you ill at ease – at least, when I am not the cause of it. Is he well? And how do you fare as the summer season starts to fade?_

_Autumn-Sworn,_

_Royal Verderer Fall_

–

_Cinder,_

_I expected to see a new rank before your name after all this time. You do have a knack for climbing Autumn’s precarious ladders after all, but there are not many steps left when one finds one’s self within hand’s reach of the King, or so I have found. I can only imagine the nobility there finds it alarming to see you upholding their royal laws, although the executioner’s mask and blade surely suits you. Yet it is without any mask at all that I prefer you, if it can be so boldly said. You may call such mockery, but who else is there to tease you but myself, wild one?_

_Alas, we have been long parted, and that blame falls upon my shoulders. In this last season, my father’s health has finally begun to recover, and I will soon have the opportunity to leave Spring’s boundaries again. You have made me miss the crisp air and fresh blood of Autumn lands, which is an impressive feat when I share not a drop of your court’s lineage. That is enough of a secret in itself, is it not?_

_Spring-Sworn,_

_Glynda_

–

_Glynda,_

_It is always a pleasure to see you casting rank aside. Forgive my earlier impudence – or don’t, if you have intent to have it out on my hide later – but time and distance is enough to set anyone’s teeth on edge when the gap becomes large enough._

_You leave me with only one question to ask: when will you be here next?_

_Yours (in time),_

_Cinder_

–

_Cinder,_

_Surely you will be attending the Fall Equinox celebrations? I will be attending in Ozpin’s stead, and when our duties are done, find myself in need of a place to stay. If I could impose upon you absent anyone’s notice, my time will be yours._

_I look forward to spending it wisely._

_Yours (you unforgivable tease),_

_Glynda_

–

An energy thrummed in the air, thickening in the space between bodies as the Autumn Court clustered together, gathering round to bear witness to the year’s executions. Glances cut with every flicker of a wayward gaze, eyes like shards of long glass, dark and eager and hungry. Murmurs flitted between mouths, passing through teeth and between various parties, growing in intensity until it seemed that the air had been hollowed out with a carving knife and filled to the bursting point, appetite whetted and honed.

Folding the letter from Glynda and tucking it away, Cinder ignored the whispers threading their way around the gentry, but she could not dampen the skein of hunger coiling in the pit of her own gut. The promise of bloodshed so near Samhain made her mouth water, and from the corner of her eye she could see more than one Autumn Courtier clench their fist and swallow past the tremor in their throats. They tugged at the neck of their tight-fitting doublets like keen-scented hounds at the collar, fierce and impatient for the kill.

Every year, the day before the Autumn Equinox, the Autumn King hand-picked a trusted noble, bestowing upon them the honor of overseeing that year’s executions – a position Cinder had managed to secure for herself for centuries now. Any prisoners that had been locked away in the Court’s damp earthen dungeons were dragged through the rows of their peers in chains to die by her hand at the Autumn King’s feet. Through the slits in her executioner’s mask, Cinder watched the nobility, opening her mouth and breathing in deeply to taste of their anticipation, coppery and bitter on the tongue.

At any given moment, it was by far her favorite time of year, but this one held a particular expectancy that others lacked. The prospect of a plan long in the making, at last coming to fruition, made this year’s killings all the sweeter.

Standing at the very fore of the wave of gentry was Cythera Adel, attended as ever by her usual coterie: Lady Daichi and Lord Raleigh flanking Cythera and her husband like a pair of alfil escorting their sovereigns on a chequered board. She made quite a show of pretending not to notice Cinder standing by the King’s throne of antler and bone and animal skins, but every now and then Cythera’s gaze would flick to the dais, and her lips would thin to a narrow line at the sight. Behind Cythera and her husband, Cinder could spy three figures lurking in their wake – children, she realised. She studied them with a contemplative slant of her head. Of course she had known that Cythera and the others had borne children – even going so far as to keep tabs on Lord Raleigh’s legitimised bastard half-Faunus, and Alva’s daughter born into a life of servitude – but this was the first time she had seen them in the flesh.

Already Yatsuhashi loomed head and shoulders taller than his mother, but their eyes were the same: cool and collected and black as river stones. They both stood in identical poses, arms crossed, feet planted shoulder-width apart, silently watching their surroundings. He looked down when Coco nudged him with her elbow, motioning for him to lean in closer so she could whisper something in his ear; Cythera’s daughter had inherited her mother’s seamless ease with others. 

From her position by the throne, Cinder could see a number of noblemen and noblewomen alike eyeing her askance, doubtlessly plotting their ways into the good graces of Lady Adel’s heir. Coco held the rapt attention of her two companions; whatever it was she said made one laugh – Lord Raleigh’s blind bastard. If he had a name, Cinder did not know it. As far as she was aware, his father called him by the diminutive ‘Fox’ and naught else. The fourth child – like her servant mother – was nowhere to be found. Full-blooded Faunus did not attend Court unless it was from the shadows.

Most likely this was their first day at Court, and Cinder couldn’t think of a more fitting introduction.

It had been a number of years since Cinder was invited to one of Lady Adel’s infamous parties; the dark murmurs concerning Cinder’s rise in rank had grown potent enough to cool even Cythera’s ardor, and Cythera remained, if nothing else, a staunch self-preservationist by nature. As a rung in the ladder though, she had served her purpose well.

A hand on her shoulder broke her quiet musings. Cinder didn’t need to turn to know who had touched her; the Autumn King’s presence was a palpable weight as he sat upon the throne. Tilting her head forward in a nod like a shallow bow – a movement as much of obeisance as it was to better hear him – he spoke, his voice a low rumble heard only by her ears.

“Seeing you like this–” he murmured, thumb stroking lightly over her shoulder so that one of his talons scratched at the pauldrons there, “–It reminds me of my daughter.”

For once, Cinder was grateful for the mask that hid her expression. With wide eyes, she suppressed her twitch of surprise at his words. For centuries she had doted upon him, wheedling her way into the sight of his sovereign mercy, and once there suggesting every manner of ribald activity in tone, if not actual words – this was quite possibly the very last response she had expected.

From what she had gleaned over the years, the king’s daughter had been fiery and daring. Accounts differed, muddied by time and those who cared to remember, but Cinder could find no actual record of the mother, only that Amber herself was the result of a tryst between Ambrose and an Autumn noblewoman of little name. All traces of her lowly maternal line had been struck from the books – an act usually only reserved for those Fae who turned Unseelie – until all that remained was Amber’s connection to the throne, and a streak of black mutterings and disapproval that stretched for an imperial mile. 

The King had let her run wild, with every intention of naming her his Heir, but before he could do so, someone in the begrudging gentry had taken matters into their own hands. Amber had been found pierced with arrows in a ditch along the road between Autumn and Spring, and as a result the King had withdrawn from Court in his grief. It was a distance that had never closed again.

Cinder had always thought the old King had wanted a wife, or even someone to warm his sheets at night, but in the end after so many centuries, all he yearned for was the return of the daughter slain by the Court’s hand.

Before she could reply, Ambrose patted her shoulder once more. It was an action he had done many times in the past, but only now did Cinder realise that it was a fatherly gesture. “I think you’ve kept them stewing long enough, my dear.” He smiled around the cracked ivory tusks jutting from his mouth, and chided, “Stop playing with your food.”

Cinder dipped her head before straightening. “As you wish, my liege.”

Reaching behind her, Cinder’s hand fit around the handle of the executioner’s cleaver, smooth and black and worn from millennia of use, from the oil of many palms that had handled it. The head dragged against the ground as she swung it around, grating along earth and stone, a muted sound that resounded as the entire Court shivered in the presence of cold iron and fell silent. The attention of every noble and courtier fastened upon her, their gazes alight with a fervor, a pack of wolves glaring through the mist, fixed and unblinking. She allowed herself a moment to indulge in the feel of all their eyes upon her: some reverent, most hostile, all wary.

Leaning upon the axe in a lazy indolent pose, Cinder flicked her fingers towards the very far end of the Court where four Faunus guards were awaiting her signal. “Bring forth the prisoners,” she ordered, and though her voice was soft and dampened behind the executioner’s mask, it carried.

Two of the guards seized the arms of the first prisoner in line and hauled them forward. Shackles clanked at ankles and wrists, heavy and pitted with rust, chafing the skin red and raw, and a roughspun cloth sack hiding their face was the only attire they wore. The Court parted before them before closing ranks in their wake, leaning forward eagerly as the prisoner was towed before the throne and shoved to their knees at Cinder’s feet.

Reaching down Cinder yanked at the cloth sack and cast it aside to reveal Lady Tremaine staring up at her. Terrified tears streaked Tremaine’s cheeks, and when she saw the executioner’s mask she bowed forward to cradle her head in her hands. Sobs wracked her naked form, and she shivered as much from fear as from the wintry snap in the air, sharp as the edge of a knife.

Cinder grabbed a fistful of Tremaine’s filthy auburn hair and wrenched her head back. “Lady Tremaine, you and your daughters have been found guilty of hunting upon the King’s land, a sacred act to be undertaken only by the King’s chosen Venery.”

“No!” Tremaine gasped, and she shook her head in Cinder’s harsh grasp. “It isn’t true! Please–! You must believe me!”

It had been so easy. Cinder had gifted her step-mother’s estate with a small handful of Faunus servants that were greedily accepted, but which were all her own creatures. At her command, they had slipped a slaughtered hart into the abattoir and left it to hang upon hooks and chains from the ceiling. A few bloodied and broken arrows. A discarded hunting bow. A whispered word to the Venery. When the Court was this hungry for slaughter, they rarely cared to investigate the source of new flesh.

If Cinder had known condemning Tremaine and her brood would be this simple, she would have done it centuries ago.

Smoothing her hand down Tremaine’s hair, Cinder scraped the clawed fingertips of her gauntlet across her step-mother’s tear-stained cheek. When Tremaine gazed up at her, imploring and frozen in fear, not knowing who it was she was truly facing, Cinder felt a thrill shoot down to her stomach, and her hand clenched until pinpricks of blood pooled up along Tremaine’s jaw.

Tone hoarse and laden with barely contained excitement, Cinder announced, “For this transgression most grave, there can be only one verdict.”

She stepped back and gestured to the Faunus guards to hold Tremaine down. Seizing her by the wrists, they locked Tremaine’s shackles into place so that she could not bolt, trussed up neat as a plucked fowl. Cinder turned the axe over in her hands, then waited. The Court leaned forward, watching with baited breath. A few skeletal leaves, mottled scarlet, tumbled and crackled in a breeze along the ground, tangling with the hems of Cinder’s crimson gown. Tremaine’s whimpers were muffled by the executioner’s block tucked up beneath her chin. Craning her neck back, Cinder closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. She would not rush this. She wanted to savor it, to remember each and every detail with vivid burning clarity.

Muscles tensing, Cinder opened her eyes, shining fervent and molten. In a single blow she swung the axe, cleaving hard and true.

The cold iron whispered as it sliced through the air, hissing upon contact with flesh. Cinder’s savage smile was obscured by the mask, an emblem carved all in ivory, embrowning and engoldening itself with all the years of bloodshed it had faced. It cloaked her head, wrapping around her skull like a visor in the form of a wild boar’s skull, the tusks jutting to either side stained black at the tips with old blood. She breathed heavily, warm pants escaping her in white plumes that flared through the cold red Fall air. Steam coiled from the trunk of Lady Tremaine’s severed neck, and blood clotted thick and dark in the dirt where it spilled down the executioner’s block. 

The sight of it sent the Court into a near frenzy, seething with vicious pleasure, but through the slits in her mask Cinder could see Cythera watching her with silent eyes, something like horror painting her face in lurid strokes.

Surely such an old and dear friend would remember who Tremaine had been to her, but Cythera held her tongue, just as expected. Fear was the most powerful ally one could court, after all.

Kicking Tremaine’s headless body aside, Cinder hefted the wicked, gore-splattered axe in her hand and gave an imperious gesture to the Faunus guards. When she spoke, she heard her voice as though from a great distance, saturated with an unslakeable thirst. “Bring me the next prisoner.”

–

While she had an inescapable attachment to the celebrations of the Spring Court, Glynda had found her distinct distaste for Autumn’s sanguinary rites fading as centuries passed. Harvests and hunts flourished across the entire court on this night, kegs split open by breathless hunters wielding axes after they brought their kills forward for the King’s approval. It was certainly unorganized fare, but as long as the blood being spilled didn’t spatter her shoes or cloak, Glynda didn’t see her patience tested overmuch, and saw Ozpin’s gift of aged Spring wines into eager noble hands absent any trouble. A few made comments under their breath, expecting her to be sickened by the festivities, but she was soon driven to seek out the most gory and grisly of the lot, knowing that Cinder would only be found in a place where blood went unstaunched.

Smaller courts were arranged in the larger square, with those of the oldest families like Adel and Daichi positioned closest to the King’s and visibly flanking his throne, but she discovered Cinder not too far from there, her presence simply unmistakable for any other. With age, the primal hunger in Cinder’s nature had only intensified, soaking the air like a crimson mist, a fog that had no other purpose but to feed and consume. Glynda could sense her power like a second heartbeat, Autumn’s claim hammered into every inch of Cinder’s uniform, proclaiming her as the scythe that fell before Winter took hold, clearing a path through rot and detritus. There were few attending her seat, but Glynda took note of the sacrifices strewn by Cinder’s feet, gifts surrendered by lesser fae seeking mercy or indulgence.

Most were raw meats and heavy liquors, although trinkets of gold glittered between the offerings, the sign of some wayward noble’s hand. The most fascinating prizes were the wooden carvings, not a one of them uniform, but all bearing Faunus sign, the crude runes that declared family names among those who had no noble seal assigned to their bloodline. Were appearance alone taken into account, it seemed that the lowest tiers of the Autumn Court sought to express their loyalty to Cinder, but the gentry’s shows of affection were sharply lacking. Even among a court that valued a certain unbalanced viciousness, seeing a low-blooded daughter rise upon the wave of her own ambition had clearly ruffled them. Glynda let a huff of amusement escape her lips; petty creatures, one and all.

“This is not a show for your entertainment.” A servant kneeling at the edge of Cinder’s spread muttered, the dark and well-preened sheen to his hair betraying raven’s blood – a Faunus. “There is plenty to be found near the ale kegs, better for your kind.”

It was surprising enough hearing someone with no rank to speak of directing such cold words her way, but Glynda was sure his brusque dismissal was to keep a wide berth around Cinder. She was harsh, even brutal, to those who came clamoring for favor in her own court, after all, saying whatever was needed to drive them away from Ozpin. “You mistake my intentions.”

“He does indeed.” In a flourish of red, Cinder was standing and at her side, holding the beautiful countenance of a predator, lithe and sleek. “Forgive my servant, Grand Seneschal. I did not wish for mindless gossip and drunken company on this Equinox eve and bid my attendants to keep the rabble out of my sight.”

The Faunus sunk to the floor at the sound of her title, palms pressed flat and head low. “Grand Seneschal–my deepest apologies, I did not–”

Glynda bit the back of her tongue, sensing the game at hand. “I had hoped to speak to you regarding a matter of diplomacy, my Lady Verderer. If discretion is not guaranteed…”

“Perish the thought. I would not have your view of the Autumn Court tarnished by such a minor misstep.” Cinder gave a small bow, but her eyes didn’t fall, molten for a split second with desire before propriety reclaimed her graze. “There are private rooms here, perhaps better suited to your tastes. And wine like no other, I can promise.”

Her servants were dismissed with an absent wave, and Glynda watched as they started to gather up Cinder’s gifts with both haste and care, wrapping up the display as if it was a caravan to be moved elsewhere the next day. Once their work began, Cinder took a sedate path out of the festival grounds, avoiding the largest of the crowds until the revelry was only a sound like distant thunder, dozens of individual voices blending together. 

A broad, ancient trail of worn stone lead past heavy cast-iron gates, topped with curling spikes that imitated scattered thorns, making climbing atop them a daunting task at best, but the faint rust-colored stains upon some made it clear that a few intoxicated fae must have dared to try. There was no hint of that traditional blood-laden ale on Cinder’s breath, which came as a mild surprise; Glynda preferred her presence while sober, but for Cinder to turn her back on the celebration entirely showed a devotion she hadn’t hoped to expect.

“How far?” She asked, letting her gaze wander over the Autumn scenery rather than Cinder herself; plenty of eyes could be still watching them, even now.

“Not very.” A thread of humor wound through Cinder’s tone, now warm and familiar. “Has all the blood in the air taken your patience with it?”

“Simple curiosity is not impatience.” Glynda mused, unable to keep the flash of teeth out of her smile. “If anything, your letters encouraged my haste.”

Letters that should have set themselves ablaze for their explicit air, Cinder’s black and spiky handwriting weaving tales of sheer debauchery. They were all locked in the very bottom of Glynda’s desk, hidden beneath the weight of books and mementos. “If I cannot be present in body, I can be in spirit. Something has to warm that greenhouse you call a bed.”

Finally, they reached the proper door, and she watched as Cinder spent a bit of magic from her fingertips to coax the lock open, the mechanism attuned to her touch. A far cry from the quarters Glynda remembered when she first spent a night in the Autumn Court in her graces, a shell of rough stone and wood that wasn’t far from the hunting barracks and built only for practicality. Now Cinder was framed in bronze and crimson silk, even if the brutal scene woven into the carpet covering the floor wasn’t quite to Glynda’s taste. Yet it was a pleasure to watch Cinder relax in her own domain, heavy gauntlets of the executioner set atop a carved chest brimming over with armor and blades, oxblood cape falling with a whisper to the floor before a dozen other buckles were undone.

“Are you enjoying standing there?” Leather parted with a harsh tug, baring the space between Cinder’s breasts as she spoke. “Come now. You have as much to take off as I do.”

Glynda arched a brow, her steps stalking silent as she crossed the carpet. “Is that so?”

Rather than moving to undress, she caught Cinder’s chin in one hand, the other pushing her own cloak aside to expose the riding crop latched to that hip. A soft gasp of delight and surprise vibrated against Glynda’s palm, and her fingers tightened until Cinder was locked in an unbreakable grip, held right above the throat. She could yet breathe, although that was a privilege Glynda had learned to give and take for the sake of both their pleasures, when the time was right.

“Did I say you could stop?” It was with purpose that she hardened her gaze, knowing that sharp and emerald edge would bring a yielding answer in that wicked, golden stare. “We’ve only just begun.”

A beginning that stole the night away, testing the very limits of the four walls surrounding them and how much sound it could swallow. If her ardor was too punishing, Cinder voiced no complaint, surrendering the state of her knees and thighs to a bruised and aching red, but she was driven to howl and scream by a dozen other tasks, then silenced when Glynda demanded it; at times with her bare hands, but once with a heavy silk tie stolen from the pile of Cinder’s clothes. It was a visceral, half-starved reunion, blood calling to blood until they vented the darkest depths of their need, and all pretense of control was cast aside to bring their bodies to a shuddering union, again and again.

Breathless, with slick heat streaked down to her chin, Cinder collapsed back against the pillows once more, sated as a lioness after a most successful hunt, and Glynda released her hold on the surprisingly sturdy frame of the bed before joining her. There was an inch between them at best, easily closed again when endurance ignited intent, but she had become used to that fraction of distance, the silent acknowledgement that this was an ephemeral exchange. No rings or handfasting cords would bind them together, not when that would require picking one court over another. For all the frustration Ozpin could cause her at times, Glynda simply couldn’t imagine forsaking Spring for an eternal Autumn, nor did she expect Cinder to do the same.

“How can you look so deep in thought already?” Wiping a thumb across her lips, Cinder smirked before sucking it clean. “Let the afterglow wash over you, darling. We partake so rarely.”

“I enjoyed myself thoroughly, if that’s in question.” Glynda said with a roll of her eyes, even if the rest of her body felt warm and liquid. “Where did my glasses get to?”

A groan of exertion escaped Cinder’s lips as she leaned over the side of the bed, nails scratching varnished wood until they were retrieved from the floor and deposited with little ceremony on Glynda’s stomach. She huffed in mild protest, cleaning off the lenses with the end of one sheet as Cinder stretched, letting out a curious hum. “Have you thought about children, Glynda?”

The question nearly made her glasses bash into her nose, but she recovered at the last minute, adjusting them a few cautious centimeters. “Excuse me?”

“Cythera Adel has made it all the rage lately. Everyone’s _racing_ to have an heir in the Autumn Court.” Cinder rolled that one word around her tongue, made it rough with distaste. “I thought you might have some insight, considering Spring’s…proclivities.”

“I spend my days grateful that the King has no children, Cinder.” There was a speck of something on one lens every time her eyes narrowed, and Glynda growled a curse under her breath. “Bearing any of my own is the farthest thing from my thoughts.”

A low laugh was her answer, followed by Cinder’s languid shrug. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing we’re incapable of it together. Can you imagine?”

Glynda blinked twice before turning her stare to the opposite side of the bed. “Have you thought about it?”

Whatever wry comment was coming in turn was halted by a sharp knock at the door. Glynda frowned as Cinder sat up and alert, tossing the sheets over her bare legs before climbing out of bed. A robe was quickly retrieved from the closest wardrobe, belt tied together in a rather flimsy knot, and all she could do was keep completely silent as Cinder cracked open the door, obscuring any curious eyes peering inside with the width of her body.

“What?” Cinder’s tender, mischievous tone was now a cold snap, and unable to see more than the boots of their interruption, Glynda could scarcely guess the person’s identity. “Do you know what hour it is?”

“You have my deepest apologies, my lady, but everyone in the Court said you were the last person Grand Seneschal Goodwitch spoke to. I have a message for her, but no one seems to know where she’s lodged, and it’s of utmost importance.” There was some fumbling, the clasp opened on a heavy bag and followed by the rasp of paper. “It’s from a healer in the Spring Court, attesting that her father died in the middle of last evening. Ozpin himself put a seal of proof on it.”

The words came as an echo, twice over, then ten times more, until it was a rhythm beating on the inside of Glynda’s skull as she strained to breathe past a tightened throat. She had left him in the care of two of the most skilled minds she knew, both of them trained in dealing with every malady the fae ever had cause to suffer, and had even been strong enough to stand and kiss her cheek before she made the trip here. How was it _possible_?

“The cause.” Cinder’s voice fell low and soft, nearly a whisper. “Does it say?”

Papers whispered against each other again, the sound scraping and raw. “He seized during dinner and lost consciousness, my lady. Despite their best efforts, he never woke again. Can you get this message to the Seneschal? I fear she may return to the Spring Court unknowing.”

A nod, then; Glynda could only focus her eyes on Cinder’s back, needing something to anchor herself in place. “It will be done. The Seneschal guards her privacy with utmost care, but I know where to seek her out. You should ride back before the sun comes.”

“I will, my lady. Thank you.” The messenger uttered, and with that, the door was closed.

–

For a long pained moment, Glynda said nothing. Her eyes were wide and silent as she sat up in bed, the feather mattress dipping beneath her weight, silken sheets pooling back around her waist. Clenching the letter in her hand, Cinder could see Glynda’s fingers tremble, the tremors running from shoulder to wrist. Glynda opened her mouth to inhale deeply, and her lower lip began to quiver before she bit down on it hard enough to scent the air with copper. When Glynda’s eyes started to well up with bright tears, Cinder felt a thread of panic twist in her gut.

Staunching the sudden unutterable urge to touch her, to reach out, to offer some small gesture of _something_ – she did not know quite what – Cinder curled her hands around the letter so that they balled up into a tight white-knuckled grip. Suddenly she longed for the executioner’s axe, the whisper of cold iron like the promise of death and decay, a comfort.

“What can I do?” Cinder demanded and closed the space between them, breathless with the force of her desire for action on Glynda’s behalf – whatever action that may be. “Tell me.”

She could not name what it was that compelled her to say such words, only that if Glynda were to ask for something – _anything_ – in that moment she would give it.

Startled, Glynda blinked at her. A bemused frown furrowed her brow, and she searched Cinder’s burning gaze as though utterly taken aback by the sincerity there. “Could you–?” Swallowing past the stone in her throat, she looked down at the edges of the parchment shivering in her grasp, and her voice was raspy with grief. “Could you hold me?”

Cinder stared at the side of her face, but Glynda would not meet her eye, as though ashamed to have asked such a thing of her in a moment of weakness, yet she did not rescind the request. Slowly, with no certainty, Cinder unsnarled her fists and reached up to put an arm around Glynda’s shoulders so that they sat side by side, flanks pressed along one another in a sinuous, unbroken line. Glynda’s spine was stiff and Cinder dug her fingers into her opposite shoulder as though to pull her closer. It took an age for the tension to drain from Glynda’s back, and when it finally did she seemed to melt against her, turning to bury her face in the crook of Cinder’s shoulder. There she let loose a deep shuddering sigh, and Cinder could feel the flutter of her lashes as Glynda closed her eyes, wet with spent tears.

The muscles along Cinder’s jaw bunched. She wanted to set her teeth in something, tear a hide to bloody pieces, but Glynda was breathing soundly against her neck and Cinder felt like she was drowning in all this inaction.

“Stay with me tonight.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them, and her teeth clenched as she waited for Glynda’s response. Rather than reject the offer, however, Glynda merely hummed and murmured faintly, “I’d like that.”

–

A late dawn crept over the horizon, softly warming the line of unbroken mist along the mountain ridges that enclosed the Autumn Court. It would be some hours still until the fog began to truly fade, the morning engulfed by the pale mist like a shroud. Carefully, so as to not wake her partner, Cinder slipped from beneath the sheets, rose from her bed, and crept from the room. The latch creaked as she lifted it, but Glynda’s immobile form continued to slumber as Cinder shut the door behind her. The long trailing hem of her sanguine robe fluttered around her ankles as she strode down the halls, flaring as she turned a corner, the walls lined with smoky torches that illuminated her path and set her figure aglow with flickering light. Every step sent a warm ache across her thighs where the skin was mottled with bruises from the night’s earlier pleasures, and she relished every pang despite how the evening had ended.

The rustle of labor grew louder the closer she drew to the servants’ quarters. What few Faunus she passed in the hallways – bearing trays and other items to prepare for the day – wore masks and stopped to bow their heads until she walked by them. Reaching her destination, she opened a plain wooden door without a warning knock, and entered the room of one of her servants. Small and dingy it may have been, but she was accustomed to treating her Faunus with near luxury in comparison to some. From the corner of her eye, she could see a shelf laden with a few well-worn books, a prized possession that would have doubtlessly resulted in twenty strokes of the lash were they in the Winter Court.

The Faunus who dwelled here – the same raven-blooded guard from the previous night – startled and shot to his feet when she closed the door softly behind her. His hand shot out to grab a nearby mask hanging from the wall, and he was halfway to bringing it up to his face, when Cinder stopped him with a gesture.

“There is no need for such formalities between us, Gavran.”

At her words, he gingerly set the mask aside once more, though he still lowered his eyes, black hair glinting sleekly. “If it pleases you, Mistress.”

“It does,” she murmured. He did not offer her a place to sit, nor did she wish for it. These meetings she always kept short. “What news of the Faunus staff in the Adel estates?”

Gavran kept his dark eyes fixed on the hem of Cinder’s robe as he answered. “Most – save a rare few who remain intensely loyal to the family – would be willing to abandon the estate at a moment’s notice. Only the Scarlatinas would bleed for a full-blooded fae.”

Tapping at her lower lip contemplatively with one finger, Cinder hummed a low note in her throat. “Start liberating them, see them replaced. A few at a time, mind you. We don’t want to rouse any suspicions. If you feel that discovery is imminent, then abandon any and all attempts until such a time arrives that you deem safe to continue.” Her voice took on a warning edge. “We cannot be seen as meddling in such affairs.”

Even though he would not meet her gaze, she could see the zealous gleam in his black eyes. “Of course, Mistress. I will see to everything.”

“I’m sure you will.” Stepping forward, she pulled a folded letter from a hidden pocket in her robe, the parchment held closed by wax stamped with the same heart-shaped crest that was tattooed into the skin of her back with Dust. “And ensure that this is delivered to the hands of Messere Torchwick, and no other.” 

She tucked the letter into Gavran’s belt, and he bowed low, hands crossed over his chest.

“Is there any other message you would like to send?” he asked as Cinder turned to leave.

Pausing in the doorway, feet straddling the liminal space like a chthonic deity, the slope of her profile a line of shadow in the dim torchlight, Cinder considered the question. At last, with a shimmer in her amber gaze she said, “Tell him: his favour is due.”

–


	6. Chapter 6

_[1450 years of age]_

_–_

“You’ve made an awful lot of people awfully unhappy.”

Cinder raised a dark brow, pausing only long enough to level a look at Torchwick before sipping at her goblet of wine. A single lazy coil of steam peeled back from the brim, curling around her cheek in a narrow spiral as she murmured, “And you’re telling me information I already know because somehow that will endear me as to your espial skills?”

He waved her barbed comment aside with a bored sweep of his hand, the other turning his amber-studded goblet beneath an appraising eye. “Not at all! I’m simply anticipating that perhaps you need superior protection, especially in your – how should I put it?” He peered around the goblet slyly, “Near future endeavors?”

“The protection I already have is more than adequate,” Without breaking eye contact with Torchwick, Cinder put up a hand to stop one of the Faunus servants from refilling her cup. “Or do you not trust that those who serve me are under my control? Perhaps you’d like a lesson?”

He smiled, though he could not keep a flash of uneasiness from stealing across his features at the dark lilt in Cinder’s voice. “That won’t be necessary, Mistress Fall. In fact I was thinking something more on the lines of a demonstration of my unerring fidelity, if you will.”

“ _Fidelity_ isn’t a word I normally associate with you, Messere Torchwick.”

Laying a hand across his heart, he feigned moral outrage. “You wound me.”

“On the contrary – it is a testament to your craft.” Cinder placed the goblet upon a small table to one side and smoothly crossed her legs. The hem of her dark gown held an edge of gold from the nearby fireplace, the only source of illumination in the room. “I don’t hire you for your trustworthy nature.”

“I’ll drink to that,” he conceded, holding out his own goblet to be refilled and waiting for the Faunus to stand behind Cinder once more before continuing.

“Now, I make no claims to know your ambitions, but I have a feeling they rest upon the highest of seats.” When Cinder said nothing, he cleared his throat and took a draught of spiced wine before forging on. “That being said, neither myself nor your friends counted among the ranks of the White Fang can take on the guise of a more visible role at your side. A known con artist and mongrel half-breeds? That just won’t do!”

The Faunus glanced at him askance, and Torchwick fended off the look with a roguish smile, “No offense.”

Through the dim, Cinder’s eyes gleamed like light catching on the surface of water at the bottom of a stone well. “I’m listening.”

“Unfortunately that leaves you with very few choices, since – as I’ve already pointed out – you’ve angered quite a lot of people, and not just in the Autumn Court.” He leaned forward in his chair, forearms resting on his knees in a conspiratorial pose. “I’ll have you know that Ozpin’s new pet Knight has been snooping around your affairs. No doubt reporting back to the King.”

Cinder’s gaze narrowed, and the flames in the fireplace seemed to leap higher, burn hotter, logs snapping in a shower of sparks that spilled over onto the marble floors. “You already have my attention. Either make the sale, or get out. I have business to attend to shortly.”

At that Torchwick seemed baffled, but any puzzlement on his face was soon pushed aside. “What I mean to say is – I can manage any covert affairs you might require in the future, while my colleague here can stand by your side in any form or function you so desire.”

Frowning, Cinder glanced at where he was pointing only to find the Faunus servant looking down at her. “What on earth are you talking–?”

The Faunus smiled at her, revealing wolfish fangs. As he did so he blinked, and one of his eyes turned the color of rose-quartz. Cinder could only stare as a slow flood of magic flushed up the Faunus’ body, silent and rippling, to reveal bit by bit the true form beneath. When it was finished, a Fae with the appearance of a young girl stood before her, dressed all in white and soft coral pinks, even the dark wave of her hair divided in colour. If Cinder did not know better, she would have sworn on her life that the girl was no more than four hundred years of age.

From his place in the chair across the lavish table between them, Torchwick’s voice sounded smug and amused, “Changelings – being so rare and highly sought after – tend to hide their abilities. You could even say it’s a particular talent of theirs.” He leaned back in his seat and propped his booted feet atop the table’s edge. “All that talent could be yours. For the right price.”

In any other circumstance, Cinder would have scolded him for treating her furniture like a footstool, but now she only studied the specimen before her. There were many tales of Changelings, Fae who stole the identities of others, draining their victims dry and wearing a multitude of faces like masks. She had read once that they stripped away lives because they had been born with only half a soul, forced to feed on the existences of others lest they fall prey to their own vile nature and turn full Unseelie. They walked the edges of crossroads, haunting liminal spaces and moments in time – doorways and new years’ eves, pregnancies and the thresholds of barley fields. Humans brewed stews in eggshells and bathed children in solutions of foxglove in desperate attempts to force the Changeling to speak and thus be banished to another realm.

In all her years Cinder had never met one, though there was said to be a Changeling born in every generation. “And what,” she breathed, not tearing her gaze from this new prize to be won, “pray tell might that price be?”

In answer, the small fae only smiled around a mouthful of sharp needle-point teeth, and dropped into a low curtsy.

–

It had been more than a number of years since Cinder had been invited to the Adel estate just north of Court. Nestled along the fog-speckled ridges, the villa sprawled, a massive complex of buildings all regal and stately as only the Adel name demanded. She knew from past experience that its palatial dining hall could hold nearly half a court’s worth of Fae and Faunus in either grand ceremony or debauched revelry; Cinder had attended both. To think there was a time when she would have rarely been seen out of the company of Cythera and her little coterie of the rich and powerful, but those centuries were long gone now.

Dismissing her sleek, dark-lacquered carriage with a wave, Cinder stepped towards the front gates and was immediately greeted by an attentive wolf-eared Faunus, his thick hair silver not from age but by the nature of his breeding. Bowing low he murmured, “The Lady Adel awaits you in the western parlour, Mistress Fall. Please, follow me.”

With a nod, Cinder trailed after him. Through familiar halls gold-trimmed and portrait-lined she was led, passing through pools of bright light from the oil-fed candelabras. Once when she was very young she had been dazzled by such displays of opulence, but wealth alone had never been enough to sate her appetite. Now she swept along without a second glance – the world had far greater treasures to plunder than gold and silver.

The Faunus pushed open an ornate wooden door carved with a hunting scene – a lone spearman lancing a rabid and foaming boar – and bowed her inside, closing the doors shut behind once she had entered.

Seated upon a low-slung chaise, Cythera awaited her. Alone but for two guards at the door and Alva – her pet hare Faunus – Cythera appeared resplendent in a gown of daring violet, a masterful creation of her husband, no doubt. Ink-filled tomes lined the shelves, but the wall beyond was floor to ceiling glass overlooking the mountains, a lake glimmering bright and distant as a jewel through the warm spring air.

Cinder did not wait to ask to be seated before taking her place upon a couch across from Cythera. “Lady Adel,” she greeted. “It was such a refreshing surprise to see an invitation penned in your hand.”

“Let us abandon pleasantries. We both know them to be false.” Cythera leaned forward, and the drape of her gown slipped over one shoulder, revealing the smooth line of her neck. “I brought you here today because you were once an old friend, and I am generous.”

Hearing that, Cinder’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “Let it not be said that I have never been a grateful recipient of your–” she paused momentarily to taste the word “–generosity.”

Cythera’s eyes narrowed, but she made no comment on Cinder’s choice of words. “This is a warning: I know that you framed Lady Tremaine and how. Your alliance with the White Fang?” She shook her head, expression almost disappointed. “I never thought even you would stoop so low.”

“I stoop as low as is necessary to achieve my ends. You should know that better than anyone.” If Cythera was affected by the sharp edge of Cinder’s sarcasm, she did not show it.

“And what ends might those be? To sit upon the Autumn Throne?” Cythera let loose a bark of incredulous laughter. “Not while I yet have life in me.”

At that Cinder’s eyes brightened, but she said nothing, letting Cythera forge on. “Ambition is one thing – an admirable quality I thought in the beginning – but the sickness you have is far more poisonous. Whoever holds your leash may not realize it yet, but I see you for what you are. Once you have something, you can’t stop wanting.”

“I stopped wanting you,” Cinder pointed out.

“But not your little fling throughout the years.”

When Cinder stiffened, Cythera’s smile was triumphant. Lying back on the chaise, she crossed her legs beneath her and propped an elbow upon a cushion of crushed velvet. “I may not know their name or station yet, but it’s only a matter of time. You can’t keep a secret forever, and this person must be very special indeed to keep them hidden for so long. I always knew you couldn’t have risen through the ranks all on your own. This master of yours has been guiding your hand all along.” She shrugged, a haughty dismissive gesture. “Well, whoever it is, I will find them. I will unveil the larger game at stake here and stop it in its tracks.”

“You cannot stand to even entertain the thought that one so low-blooded as myself could climb so high, can you?” Cinder’s lip curled. “No, there must be some higher power holding the reins. You never think to regard those beneath you unless you want a good rut.”

With those words, Cinder’s gaze wandered to Alva standing attentively just behind her Mistress’ seat. It spoke volumes of her skill that she did not flinch or give any sign of being referred to, although she could not restrain the twitch of one velvet-lined ear; like a beast of prey watching for any wayward shudder, Cinder saw it and bared her teeth in a cruel smile.

“Some on your staff may be loyal to a fault, but most of your servants were only too eager to join my cause.” Cinder looked back to Cythera, whose lips were pressed into a thin line. “Perhaps you’re not as generous as you claim.”

When Cythera spoke her voice was soft and trembled with the force of her anger. “I will ruin you,” she breathed. “I do not care how much power or influence you have gathered around you at Court. I will unite all families of name, and you will flee into the woods and mountains, or slither beneath a rock – whatever foul place creatures like you come from.”

“If you think that losing rank and Inheritance is the worst thing that can happen to someone, you have much to learn, but don’t worry – I am more than happy to teach you.” Cinder’s eyes gleamed with a fierce eagerness. “When I control your carriage drivers, your wet-nurses, your guardsmen, your makers of fine delicacies, there is no place for you, and your children, and your families of name to hide – no woods, no mountains, no rock. I will flush you from your fortresses, your seats of lineage, and when you die it will be knowing that they are at my mercy: your daughter, your noble friends’ sons, and the little rabbit that trembles at your side.”

As Cinder spoke, Cythera grew increasingly more pale until she sat, ashen-faced and bloodless as drained quarry. For a moment she said nothing, as though not trusting herself to speak, the muscles along her jaw bunching when she clenched it, hands curled into fists in her lap, bruising the fine silk grain of her gown. When she did reply, her voice was hoarse and chest-deep, and her dark eyes were hard enough to strike flint and spark. “Alva, please see our esteemed guest from the estate.”

“Don’t bother. I know the way out.” Cinder rose to her feet in a liquid motion, the stretch of muscle beneath skin, the unblinking force of her gaze, predatory and controlled. “And if you try to dismiss your staff, my old friend, you’ll find blades at the ready.”

–

Visiting the Autumn Court during the height of spring left something anxious and unwilling in the pit of Glynda’s stomach, nestled back against her spine. It’s for no fair reason that she could attest to, not when all remained at peace despite a particularly harsh winter, even if the constant chill pervading the lands made for an unfortunate reminder of her father. He was buried at the leylines closest to Winter’s boundary, but the ceremony for him had been solely of Spring, carried out by Ozpin himself with full honors. Years had bled by since then, rarely indistinguishable from one another until she was called on to take the rank of Knight, placing her at the highest noble link in the chain below the King.

By the accounts of those present, it was the most solemn and beautiful knighting the court had seen in generations, with constant murmurs that this meant Ozpin had finally chosen an heir, and Glynda was well and sick of all the rumors. She had promised him nothing of the sort, and this was a path started centuries before when she was chosen to serve throne-side, offering a perspective Ozpin was wise enough to know that he lacked at such an advanced age. More than a monarch now, he was a friend, and spoke to her with no pretense of power, only curiosity tempered with a faith that Glynda had done her level best to return. Such had meant laying aside more personal pursuits once more, and although she had by no means abandoned Cinder as a companion, most of their liaisons in the last century had been confined to exchanges on pen and paper rather than trysts of the flesh.

It was neglectful, and she had every intention of soothing any ruffled feathers from her extended absence, yet that feeling of ill ease chased her all the way past Autumn’s gates, and only heightened when she was welcomed into the Court proper. Cinder’s name was on everyone’s lips, echoing through Glynda’s skull whenever she passed one pack of nobles or the other, whispering about Ambrose’s favorite like it was a sport of its own. In every sense, she knew Cinder was poised close to the throne, but that truth felt like an idle fantasy until she was surrounded by proof of it, and left Glynda feeling quite exposed as she made her way to royal quarters under the eyes of a dozen hungry-eyed Autumn guards.

Something was amiss, but she couldn’t pinpoint the source, like a single thread out of place in a rug woven with ten thousand passes of the loom.

“Ser Goodwitch,” A voice called from an opposing hall, and her back straightened iron-stiff from being spoken to so directly, “If you seek her, this is the easier path.”

After a moment, Glynda recognized the speaker – the same Faunus who had mistaken her as a malingering observer during the Autumn rites centuries before – and let out a deep breath that forced her shoulders to relax. “Have I been walking in circles?”

“No, but the servants have much faster paths through this castle.” He gave a sweeping gesture to a door concealed by a broad tapestry, which was opened with haste to allow her inside.

Rather than simple quarters of her own, Cinder was now in possession of an entire suite that sprawled across the greater part of a wing. Glynda took this observation in with a raised brow, following the servant’s quick but quiet steps until she was directed towards a heavy set of double doors, and the Faunus dismissed himself with a bow before she could even offer a word of thanks in kind. Left alone in the hall, it seemed somewhat ridiculous to knock, but simply barging into the room offered far more potential embarrassment. Two light taps brought the faint shuffle of footsteps close, and when one of the doors swung open, Cinder welcomed her with a smile like trapped sunlight.

“Your man knew who I was this time.” Glynda murmured as the same door was shut, cutting her off from the threshold. “Does he know why I’m here?”

“Were I to ask, I think he would say it was to ensure that my future coronation did not disrupt our court’s diplomacy with the nobles of Spring.” Cinder’s musing was followed by a soft laugh. “However, what his Faunus senses tell him of the state of my bed after your visits may be something else entirely.”

Her mouth started to twist into a frown, but the gesture went half-finished when Cinder leaned in for a kiss, the warm and familiar pressure of her mouth putting Glynda more at ease than any words ever could. “I suppose it is a barely kept secret at this point.”

“Kept better than you would think, my sweet.” Another kiss followed, deepening faster than the first. “I’ve never spoken to Ambrose of it. Have you told Ozpin?”

Hearing Cinder refer to the Autumn King with such familiarity was odd, although she certainly had the right. “No. Although I imagine after so long, he has guessed why I attend Autumn-side more often than any other Court but my own.”

“There’s no harm in it.” Fingertips slid up to the clasps of Glynda’s cloak, undoing the thin hooks of metal. “Has it not struck you that we fit so well together? That even across the lines of courts and blood, we have cleaved together like the joining was always meant to be.”

“Fortuitous, indeed.” Amusement tugged at the edge of Glynda’s mouth as she allowed the cloak to fall to the floor. “What has you speaking such poetry?”

“Must I have a reason beyond having missed you?” Blunt in comparison to Cinder’s oft-tempered words, but it was the swift movement of her hands that made Glynda frown, and she caught both of those slender wrists between her own.

“It only strikes me as curious, wild one.” She offered the nickname out of kindness, not wanting to rouse Cinder’s anger by prying deeper. “More than a hundred years have passed since you’ve come to me like this was your last night before the executioner’s block.”

A laugh spilled from Cinder’s throat, high and almost bubbly. “I suppose the throne shares something in common with such blood-spilling, but I have no fear of it.”

“You’ve never had fear.” Glynda smiled reflexively after the words, so many memories washing over her thoughts like a flood. “Even when you were a fresh-blooded huntress in a stable under my hand.”

“And now we’re the same, aren’t we?” Something dangerous glittered in forge-bright eyes, excitement keen to spill over and ignite.

“The same.” More like two halves of a coin facing opposite directions, Glynda supposed, bound together but never looking towards an identical path. “How so? By rank, I suppose.”

“Rank has never meant anything, Glynda. You taught me that.” Cinder’s fingers toyed with the front of Glynda’s tunic, betraying her desire to see it unlaced even though a frown was building on that dark, full mouth. “It’s the power one wields, the sort that’s vein-deep. That makes the world take to one knee and show respect.”

Raising a brow, Glynda kept her grip tight on Cinder’s wrists, despite those wandering fingers. “Perhaps. But I’ve always considered that to be a burden of my lineage and not a privilege.”

“Do you consider becoming Queen a burden?” Now those golden eyes rolled, followed by a sigh from deep in the pit of Cinder’s stomach. “You would. A martyr for duty to the end.”

“Becoming Queen?” Glynda asked, tasting bitterness on the back of her tongue. “I have no intention of doing so.”

Silence sliced through the room like a dark blade, sharp and sudden. Everything was still until Cinder’s hands clenched into fists, tendons bulging against Glynda’s palms, steel cords taut under flesh. “You can’t mean that.”

“When I have ever said that was something I desired?” Cold demand shot through her words, keen to stamp out whatever ideas Cinder had gotten into her head.

“You needn’t say the obvious, Glynda. It’s an insult to us both.” With a surprising show of strength, Cinder twisted out of her grip, taking a step back to rub the sore line of one wrist. “You were bred for it. Ozpin chose you as soon as he was able.”

“He was in need of an advisor and companion. I’ve never declared myself heir.” Had the rumors Spring-side gotten so out of control that they spread to the Autumn Court as fact? “That he has yet to choose one certainly is a complicated matter, but the throne is not mine to take.”

“Of course it is!” Cinder snapped, and the temperature in the room suddenly surged. “It’s the only way.”

Spine straight as steel, Glynda leveled her with a hard gaze. “The only way for what? You’re practically speaking in tongues.”

“Us.” She whispered it with finality, like a prayer. “Aren’t you tired of hiding this? Of being less than you really are? When we both reign, that will all be over. Neither Winter nor Summer could stand against our courts united.”

Now this was burgeoning on madness. “There is no need for me to rule for that to happen, Cinder. If you want an alliance–”

She was cut short by a dismissive wave of the other woman’s hand. “An alliance? No other has earned my trust, and I won’t let you serve as a proxy to some upstart hungry for the glamour of such a union.”

Drawing in a deep breath to steady herself, Glynda took care stripping emotion from her tone, ensuring her question wouldn’t escalate this further. “Is this about us or about power?”

“It’s about destiny. What we were meant to be.” Gripping her head as if it pained her, Cinder let out a snarl just shy of feral. “If you had _any_ idea what I’ve done to ensure that this happens just the right way. Centuries of deflecting suspicion, of lying–”

The pieces fell together with drastic, agonizing clarity. Glynda could remember a hundred letters where Cinder made light of such lofty ambitions, saying that if only the world were different no court boundaries would ever come between them. But that had been lovers’ talk, hidden in hastily burned ink and whispered when afterglow loosened their tongues. “Cinder…”

“Don’t turn away from me!” The words were spit with such venom, Glynda had to stifle a reflexive wince. “Ozpin would give you the throne the second you asked for it.”

“He chose me because I did _not_ ask for it. Because my loyalty has always outpaced my ambition.” And after policing the ambition of others for so long, Glynda’s distaste for it had only grown with each passing decade. “What about the Autumn King? Is he to die soon after your coronation?”

That, of all things, stopped Cinder short. For a second she was speechless, eyes empty as if shock had drained her dry of all feeling. “Ambrose is as my father. The one I always deserved to have.”

“You haven’t answered my question.” Glynda refused to relent; she couldn’t.

“Until age or illness takes him, I will wait to ascend to the throne.” Cinder intoned, clipped and precise.  “Is that what you needed to hear?”

Shallow comfort, amidst the rest of this. “Why did you wait to tell me that this was your intention?”

“You say that like I’m asking you to collude in some sort of plot.” Hissed between clenched teeth, it was more threat than comfort. “The crown is already yours. I’m asking you to be my equal.”

“You’re asking me to be your pawn.” What else could it be called, when she had been kept dark about these plans for so long? “To become Queen for your sake, not that of the Courts.”

“What of it? Think of what we could do, Glynda.” The brewing anger in Cinder’s stare cooled as she took a step forward again, and if it were anyone else, Glynda might have taken the desperate edge of her tone as pleading. “There’s so much corruption to be stripped from the nobility. It would be better for everyone if we did.”

“It would be a civil war if you tried such a thing.” Entire houses had been purged last time the Courts raised banners against each other, sparking a war so brutal that many had cast away their weapons completely in the aftermath, swearing to never use them again. “And don’t tell me there aren’t blades ready for your throat. The fact that you have come so far so fast means it can be no other way.”

“Then you sacrifice all we have.” Rage surged anew until Cinder’s eyes glowed with it. “And for nothing. I cannot be with you as Queen if you are only a Knight. Without the power of the crown behind you, we’d both be accused of conspiracy.”

“And you would lose your precarious throne.” Glynda noted, unable to keep the accusation from bleeding through.

With her teeth bared, close enough to lunge and take a pound of flesh, Cinder trembled. “That’s not the point.”

“Then why do you recoil from it?” Although she knew enough of Cinder’s background to guess, Glynda still wanted the truth spoken to her face. “My father surrendered his name, his estate, everything tied to his blood in order to marry my mother. They were happy together.”

Disgust twisted Cinder’s face into a nigh-grotesque mask. “You would have me become your Autumn-born mistress, clinging to your arm without any power of my own?”

“It could be the opposite, if you desired as such.” Before this night, such an offer would have felt like freedom, an actual excuse to set the needs of Spring aside.

“No. I won’t profane you in such a way.” Now Cinder was closer, mere inches away, enough for her breath to play hot against Glynda’s throat. “You are _mine_ , and we are both better than that.”

“If you won’t set this madness aside, you have no claim to me.” A lance of cold twisted through Glynda’s chest as she uttered the words, a pain she had to stifle, lock away and cast aside. “I won’t hear another word of it, Cinder, whether you are Queen or not.”

Cinder’s hands suddenly framed her face, nails biting into soft skin as Glynda was pulled into a savage kiss. In theory, she had strength enough to fight it, but her lips parted instead, welcoming the unleashed passion being poured past her teeth like wine. And it was weakness that urged Glynda to return it with just as much fervor, trying to memorize the feeling before it faded. That they had done this hundreds of times before made it bitter as much as sweet, and it wasn’t until Cinder shoved her away that they broke apart, throats raw from lack of breath.

“Get out.” For a second Cinder’s eyes glistened, the words breaking on her tongue. “Don’t come to me again until you see reason.”

Glynda’s feet carried her past the door before she could think to say another word, do something that would damn them both to more damage that had already been done. When it locked behind her with a thick iron bolt, she nearly buckled back against the wooden surface, needing something solid to keep her balance. Through the thick panel of oak, she heard glass shatter, then a hiss of flame and a sound that could have been a sob if it hadn’t twisted at the end into a broken howl.

–


	7. Chapter 7

_[1800 years of age]_

–

It was a spring of incredible growth.

Unprecedented bounty spread across all four courts with the coming of the new year, and such fruits were welcome after a bitterly harsh winter. Fitting that Silberne was granted a second child to his name just as the ice was beginning to thaw, another daughter that he named Weiss. Like any royal birth, it came with the usual fanfare, but the Winter Court already had an heir securing their throne, and the sense of relief that washed through the nobility with the arrival of her elder sister was far more subdued. Thus it wasn’t a birth that secured the undivided attention of the courts that year, but a marriage.

Summer Rose – derided for decades now as ‘always blossoming’ due to her constant cycle of suitors, none of which succeeded in bidding for her hand – sent out a quiet declaration of her intent to marry, but no amount of subtlety could halt the fervor that swept the courts when they saw the second name inscribed on the bottom of the parchment: Taiyang Xiao Long. The once-fabled rake had fallen out of the public eye years before when a Beltane lark netted him a daughter, her mother an unnamed member of the Wild Hunt. At the time, the scandal had been incredible, but the prince had no choice but to raise the girl when the alternative was abandoning her to Unseelie lands for an unquiet death. The Hunt was the farthest ring of exile one could reach and still be fae; to be cast from it tantamount to execution.

Yang, as she was named, was given very little attention even within her own Court, as no noble family wanted to bring casteless blood into their fold, and Taiyang sacrificed his reputation for the responsibility of her care. Dismissed so thoroughly, no one had paid any mind when Taiyang was brought into Summer’s private coterie as an attendant; it was rude to point out when one’s monarch acted out of pity, after all. With so many eyes averted, their romance must have bloomed unseen, and Summer appeared proudly beside him in court without a hint of hesitation. Before their nuptials, his title was merely Consort, but it was a bold enough move to startle those in attendance.

Yet not so bold as the second missive attached to the wedding invitation: a royal decree stating that Yang Xiao Long was to be adopted into the Rose household, and as Summer’s daughter, now marked as heir presumptive.

Glynda didn’t care a whit for the scandal imagined by the nobles around her, decrying that a half-feral girl was now poised to become queen of the Summer Court. The Wild Hunt had plenty of high – even royal – blood floating through its mixed bloodlines, they simply possessed no right to lands or titles. Most were exiles, but plenty were fae who desired excitement and adventure away from the courts, or even meant to escape broken marriages and households. As the only neutral party the Courts possessed, the Hunt could carry a message to anywhere and anyone, a service often abused for any number of petty reasons, but they could also claim sanctuary anywhere for a full night, and Glynda knew plenty of haughty lords who had been forced to house entire hunting parties on their estate without any right to refuse.

None of that had any influence on who Yang was or could be, and it seemed remarkably foolish to assume she would have anything in common with the wild when Taiyang had raised her from the moment she was old enough to leave her mother’s breast. If only logic would sway the crowd around her that awaited Yang’s branding as an heir, rather than the incessant and near-hostile chatter that echoed through the Summer Court’s high halls. It was a testament to the Queen’s singular force of will that they went silent before Summer could even raise her hand, but in a pure white cloak and ruby-studded gown, she was sure to draw the eye regardless. Yang stood in her shadow, hair a shock of gold next to her mother’s colors.

“My king,” one lord began on Ozpin’s left, too rich and well-possessed for Glynda to roust him from his seat, “do you really think she’s a suitable choice?”

Glynda was ready to roll her eyes, striking the noble back down for speaking so frankly, but Ozpin’s smile called for a different approach, and she stilled her tongue.

“I believe that anyone who will have to fight for the goodwill of their people, who understands the cruelty of chance, will make a far better ruler than a child groomed to expect that everything that surrounds them is theirs.” Behind the small lenses of his glasses, Ozpin’s gaze had a peculiar twinkle. “Don’t you?”

The lord was silent for the rest of the ceremony, and Glynda had to stifle a smile for nearly ten minutes before the urge passed. Yang’s marking as heir took longer than it did for newborn children, as those old enough to speak were obliged to take oaths of loyalty to the crown before the gathered court, but there were no other interruptions after the first. When she stood with Summer’s rose branded into her arm, eyes ablaze with power, the audience answered in unison with bowed heads, even if some were more reluctant than others. Summer thanked those in attendance and encouraged everyone to enjoy the reception that would swiftly follow, guarding Yang in the swath of her cloak as they exited together.

Glynda followed Ozpin as he made his rounds, greeting Silberne with renewed congratulations for Weiss’ birth before excusing himself to speak to Summer. Ambrose was conspicuously absent, having taken ill during the winter and retreating into the warmest depths the Autumn Court could offer, and Glynda was silently relieved. His heir would surely be within arm’s reach after all, and it was with great difficulty that she had avoided Cinder’s presence year after year, claiming business Spring-side for festival days in other courts and seeking sanctuary with very extended relatives from her father’s line when Autumn had reason to visit Spring. Not that the methods was perfect; there had been rare glances, rarer greetings, but never a conversation.

It wasn’t out of fear, but an ache that lingered no matter how much time had passed. There was that distant, unrelenting knowledge that Cinder would one day take the throne, crumbling whatever balance was left between them, the chances of which only grew higher with each passing day, and that should have been enough to keep her at a distance. Yet every time some noble or servant had cause to whisper Cinder’s name, it caught her ear, worming into her skull and sticking there until wine and solitude finally pried it out again. Glynda never had cause to consider herself lonely – when the presence of most living beings irritated her too much to ever be a measured need in her life – but her bed was cold, and stayed that way.

Every Beltane she remembered that first vibrant moment that blossomed between them, and every bloody Autumn festival day was a reminder of her cowardice. And it could only be that, lingering in the impossible grey of refusing to become Ozpin’s heir but never having confessed her suspicions about Cinder’s rise to power. It was a life of being trapped, the deer struggling against the hunter’s snare with no knowledge of when or where the arrow would come. What a bitter thing, to be coaxed into falling onto one blade or the other, held in the conundrum by a life that stretched on for so, so long – but she refused the cure; she had to.

“Glynda,” Ozpin’s voice tore her from the depths of her musing, so swift she was almost dazed, “I believe our carriage is here.”

And so it was, escorted by a dozen mounted guards. Behind it were a chain of empty carts that had borne gifts for Summer and her family, each one received with aplomb, and a host of attendants that appeared quite eager to start their trek back home. She followed Ozpin inside, yanking the door shut before a servant could run up to do it for them, and sank back into the overstuffed velvet cushioning with a sigh.

“A strange thing, isn’t it?” Ozpin said, although the question sounded half to himself; as did most things that came out of his mouth. “Just a season ago, there was such tense talk of heirs. Now Silberne is more secure than ever, and Summer shamed her own court to bring another into the fold. Ambrose has done much the same.”

“But we have not.” The words fell from Glynda’s lips like stones, too heavy to keep inside. “Is that your point?”

He smiled, absent judgment that certainly deserved to be there. “There is no one suited other than you to take my place, Glynda. I have children scattered across Spring, bastards I could claim, but all of them with other family ties that would bring ruin upon us. Every Beltane brings more chances, yet our bloodlines only wind tighter together. Most nobles have to hire someone to ensure they’re not marrying a close cousin these days.”

Nobles that refused to be urged elsewhere, not wanting to be the first among their generation to seek out blood from other courts. While there was little true strife or chance of war waiting to be sowed into their ranks, they were all far removed from ruling. Ozpin had outlived nearly every veteran of the war he had won to stabilize the courts, meaning there were only green soldiers to take those crucial places of command. Appointing someone young was no threat from the outside, but Glynda knew better. It would be a weakness too strong to ignore.

Both Summer and Winter’s heirs were barely of age, now learning the ropes of the crowns they would one day take, which meant Cinder would be the eldest as their parents passed, poised to take advantage of their ignorance. The same would be true for whoever Ozpin chose besides herself, if they didn’t abuse the position for their own ambitions in the first place. Corruption was always boiling right under the skin, like a plague that devoured a tree from the inside and left passersby unaware that it was hollow.

“I can’t.” And it was her own fault, her own choice over centuries and centuries. Seeds planted along a path that she’d now abandoned, but had grown nonetheless, offering up bitter fruit. “I do not refuse your offer lightly, Ozpin.”

“You could give your heart to the throne, you know.” Ozpin remarked, gaze drifting away from the blur of passing trees through the window to meet her eyes. “I’m not asking you to marry, to birth an heir. You have many years left to live, Glynda, long enough to find someone who can be made suitable. That is a luxury I can no longer spare.”

He knew. Glynda had suspected it for long enough, and he possessed the grace to never voice it aloud, but shame pierced her through like a spear. “If someone is to ruin our Court, I would rather a misguided noble was the cause rather than my surrender.”

When his hand came over hers, she nearly jumped, but the touch succeeded in holding her attention. “I have faith in your strength, Glynda.”

“I do not.” Glynda whispered back, and didn’t utter another word until she saw the edge of Spring Court gates in the distance.

–

The room felt like a cage, walls shrinking inward to entrap and confine. With swift footfalls, Cinder paced the breadth of the polished timber floors, silent but for the velvet sway of the gown around her calves. In her thoughts, she held the construction of her life’s plans all in gentle precarious balance, the final figures settling into place like keystones in archways, and she the architect of unspoken will watching events unfold. A nameless thrill hummed beneath her skin, at the tips of her fingers, and she itched.

She supposed she could tell Torchwick – he had undoubtedly already heard the news – but the thought of sharing a celebration with the likes of him put a sour furrow in her brow. The massive room, sprawling with tapestries painting various hunting scenes and lit with pale candles that flickered, felt too still, too empty; the hush made her teeth ache. In the far corner near the double doors stood Neo, quiet and stationary as a hawthorne grove and with a gaze just as aloof. For a lingering moment, Cinder was tempted to summon a nameless servant and order Neo to kill them – the sight of fresh-spilt blood always put her in a better mood.

Furious at her own indecision, Cinder dropped heavily into the high-backed seat at her writing desk, mouth twisted into a narrow irate slant. The problem, of course, wasn’t that she did not know what she wanted, it was that she knew what she wanted and couldn’t have it. Legs crossed at the thigh, one foot bounced and she licked at the backs of her teeth, glaring at the half-finished missives scattering her desk – notes to officials, and spies, and contacts across all four courts and even beyond to the Wild Hunt. A lone candle spluttered low upon its wick as it kept a brass globe of wax warm enough to pour.

Cinder narrowed her eyes before pushing aside a sheaf of used parchment and pulling a few fresh sheets towards herself. Fingers closing around a carved ivory-handled stylus, she dipped the copper nib into an inkwell, tapping it lightly against the glass so it would not drip. Then, hunched over the desk, she began to write.

_Ser_

_…_

She stopped. She leaned back in her seat. She crossed it out. Bowing back over the edge of the desk, she wrote beneath it.

_Ser Goodwitch_

_…_

With a huff of incredulous laughter, Cinder crossed that out too. The former was too perfunctory, while the latter felt patently ridiculous. Even were the letter to fall into the wrong hands, such a stiff beginning would look either suspicious or sycophantic between two of such similar rank. After a few more angles at how exactly to address the letter, Cinder found herself staring down at ink glistening darkly upon the page.

_Dearest_

_…_

Suddenly livid, Cinder scratched that last out so hard the nib of her stylus bent and sent blots of ink staining straight through three pages beneath. Her fingers were blackened with the ink, and she cast aside the ruined stylus in disgust to crumple the pages in her hands, knuckles straining white against her skin. In a flash of heat the parchment burned to ash, and she crushed the greying paper to dust with a rough growl until her palms were smeared with smoke.

From her place in the corner Neo watched in utter silence. Cinder paid her no mind. Over the years Neo must have seen her write countless letters from this very desk, though doubtless never with such fervor.

Breathing deeply, Cinder wiped her hands clean on a rag normally employed to mop up spilled ink, and replacing the broken nib with a spare, she put pen to page once more.

_Glynda_

_Centuries pass and I hear news of you traveling through the Courts, but excepting the most formal events where neither of us can escape the other I never have the pleasure of being graced with your presence. It has been far too long, and yet the words of our last encounter linger still on the tongue, bitter._

_I have no wish to recount that which we already know – such wounds are forfeit to the jaw of time – only to confess that my thoughts never stray far from you. Even after so long you are with me, through fire and adversity._

_The King of Autumn is dead. No doubt you will have heard. I was not by his side when he passed, though I heard it was peaceful. Long-lived though we are, the blood wears thin across millennia, and in the end even sovereigns are slaves to old age. Today I attend his funeral. Tomorrow I am crowned._

_Yet another formal event we must both attend, my coronation, though this is one of victory. As I sit here on the eve of my triumph, I find myself thinking only of you. Regimes change, seasons fade, but what is between us will never wither. There are no two people better suited than we. Eternity brings us together, of this I have never been more sure._

_Forever yours,_

_Cinder_

Re-reading it, page held loosely between her fingers as she scowled at her penmanship and chewed at her lower lip with teeth sharp enough to cut through sinew should she wish it, Cinder was satisfied with her work. For a brief wild moment she considered burning this one as well, and the tips of the parchment faintly trembled in her grasp. Then heaving a weary sigh she folded the parchment into three segments, lines crisp, careful, and neat. She finished off the letter with the slow drip of hot wax, which gleamed liquid bright and crimson against the page as she stamped it with her personal seal.

Before she could change her mind, she placed it among the stack to be sent out the following morning and leaned her chin upon her fist, elbow resting upon the table. The candle heating the sealing wax gave a minute flicker, and she watched it, eyes catching the light and holding it like an insect in amber. Contemplatively she reached out with her free hand and dipped the tip of her finger into the shallow pool of hot wax, removing it quickly and relishing the slow burn as she watched it cool. Repeating the process, she built up a layer of wax like a second skin, then scraped it free in a single long stripe with the nail of her thumb, revealing gold-tinged flesh beneath, rosy from heat and the shedding of its outer dermis.

In her many travels through the Courts, Cinder had once come across the great skin of a colossal serpent Grimm twisting across the far dunes of Summer. Milky white and translucent ,the moulting had gleamed in the harsh sunlight, and the tracks of the beast itself lay fresh and winding upon the sand from where it had slithered into the distance. Warm wax falling onto the table, Cinder could not help but be reminded of that moment now.

Shaking her head, Cinder pushed herself back from the desk and rose to her feet. The gown of heavy black velvet brushed against the wood-panelled floor. She straightened the high militant collar against her throat, trimmed with gold braid, and eyed Neo across the room. Her future Knight continued to watch her with the same eerie silence she always kept, words like jewels and priceless treasures to be locked away behind a thin mouth.

“You’ll need to change into something more appropriate for the funeral.” Cinder gestured to the smart cream-colored ensemble Neo wore.

At the mention of the funeral, Neo’s eyes switched color, blinking to a deep pitch black and gleaming hard as stones. Her usual indecipherable expression bloomed into something that looked almost piqued, and it took Cinder a moment to realise exactly why. The threshold of dominion – here a king’s passing, and here a queenship’s ascent – held with it an allure no changeling could dismiss. She would have been drawn to this place and this moment even had she not been employed in Cinder’s service. Now, Neo had the best seats to the event in all four Courts.

A bristle of magic, and Neo’s outfit shifted like the blur of water around boulders in a stream until she stood dressed all in demure black, even her hair and eyes an inflectionless sable. In spite of that she moved to walk behind Cinder with an overeager jaunt in her step, and as they exited the room, door creaking open, Cinder said over her shoulder, “Try not to smile too much.”

–

The air was especially thick and clotted with mist, and as she walked, pale ripples dappling around her legs, Glynda felt more like a stranger in this place than ever before. Even well into the day the Autumn Court wore the swirling brume like a cloak, and through it emerged shapes, sketches of pillars and copper-bound braziers, skeletal trees red-veined with solemn ivy, the palatial buildings beyond looming above the fog, dark and distant as sentinels with illuminated camed window-slits for eyes. Far above Glynda knew the sun must have shone – her carriage had trundled beneath it not moments before passing into Autumn’s kingdom – but not a stray shaft of light could cleave through the shroud that hung over the Court and break it open, as if the heavens knew what would pass this day and veiled their reverent gaze.

For every noble in attendance there stood an accompanying Faunus bearing a flame-tipped torch, lighting the way with a bow and silent haunting footsteps. Looking around, Glynda could see members from every Court streaming towards the same location, and even though the numbers were vast, the wooded halls crowded with fae folk, the mist dampened any chatter. Squinting past the beading moisture at the edges of her glasses, Glynda could just make out a pair of white-mantled Winter courtiers a few paces from her, and though their mouths moved no sound reached her until so that she was surrounded in an eerie noiseless haze as they were all led to the throne room.

“It’s always like this.” Ozpin said just behind her, and though his voice was hushed by the thick air, she still started at the abruptness of it. “A realm’s power clamours and swells when a new sovereign is crowned, drowning out all else.”

Noticing the bloodless cast of her face, he tilted his head, inquisitive and polite yet too discerning. “This is your first coronation,” he remarked.

“And hopefully my last,” Glynda replied. Even as the words left her mouth, she could feel the gloaming press them back between her teeth with near choking force – punishment for violating the sanctity of this place with speech. She did not know how Ozpin could look so at ease here, when the very air of Autumn seemed to crawl between her ribs and find residence there.

“You are young yet,” Ozpin said, and though his voice was gentle the message held an inescapable edge. Smoke from the torch held by the wolf-blooded Faunus guiding them made her throat scald – or perhaps that was the mist itself. “We are agents of stagnation, we Spring folk – the long unyielding age before summer’s heat – but sometimes change is necessary for the benefit of all.”

Eyes darting to the Faunus a step ahead of them – undoubtedly one of Cinder’s creatures – Glynda lowered her voice. “You make it sound as if you’re glad she’s taking the throne.”

His round spectacles gleamed, and looking into his eyes, Glynda was suddenly reminded of her first encounter with him so many years ago; he looked just as ageless, just as far-stretched and unearthly. The fog seemed to separate around him, parting like waves before the bladed prow of a ship, and where his blackwood cane struck the ground with every second step the leaves crunching underfoot bled green and warm and alive, only to fade to russet hues, reclaimed by Autumn once more. When he finally answered, he sounded hollow. “I take no delight in death, but I understand its essential compulsion. I may not know her as intimately as yourself, but I have no doubt this new queen does as well.”

At that Glynda turned her face away, burning with shame. It was not meant as a rebuke, but she took it as such. It would not do to forget her place: she a Knight and this her liege lord. She chose to serve instead of to rule, so serve she would. “I believe you understand her better than I, my King.”

A pleasant weight as Ozpin reached out to squeeze her shoulder, reassuring. “Now of that, I do doubt.”

His confidence in her stung, but she grasped at it all the same, a line to tether her to shore, something to cling to and remind herself that at least if nothing else she would always have this, her duty.

Beneath high archways of cyprus boughs intertwined, they were led into the throneroom, and with growing dismay Glynda followed the Faunus torch-bearer to the very front of the congregation. There the Winter King and Summer Queen already waited with their retinues in tow: Knights and families and Heirs. Stomach plummeting, she did not let any expression cross her face as Ozpin took his place beside them with only Glynda to accompany him, standing guard as Knight, Regent, and family in all but name. Steeling herself, she folded her hands at the small of her back and looked up to where Cinder was perched atop the dais.

Upon the throne of pelts and antlers the mist grew thick and wild and benthic around Cinder, moving slowly about her form in broad swirling shapes until only rare glimpses could be seen – the vivid burgundy texture of her long gown, the turn of a gauntleted wrist, the sleek dark curl of her hair over one shoulder, the slant of her eyes gleaming candle-bright. Glynda tried convincing herself that heated gaze did not fix on her alone, that surely everyone in the crowd must have been so thoroughly arrested by the sight of Cinder upon Autumn’s seat. It was, she realised, how she had always imagined Cinder in her thoughts – poised on the edge of motion, stygian and merciless.

Even after centuries of not being this near to Cinder, the sight of her was like a brand on the chest. Surrounded by the best and most powerful of the four courts, Cinder managed to outshine them all. She had always been striking – the cruelty lingering around her red-painted mouth hiding fangs quick and flashing – but here and now her allure seemed only to fold upon itself and intensify. Her every aspect engendered, refined, and expressed the embodiment of the autumnal season – the animalism of the hunt in her eyes, the atavism of the kill in her jaws, the swift decay of summer in her step, the herald of winter in her clenched fist, at once as awe-striking and ruinous to behold as a forest fire yet unlike anything else.

Through the encroaching briary brume Glynda could not see Cinder’s mouth move though her voice carried, an ink-black murmur.

“Named as Heir we were by our beloved sovereign – may his spirit rest beyond the Yule Gates – and we present ourself before you now as Queen Regnant of Autumn.” Her shape was blotted out by the mist like the sun by cloud, until she appeared only as a shadow, a red silhouette with a voice like an unseen beast prowling the night, swallowing up the stars. “Yield or know our displeasure.”

Rumor had spread throughout the courts that Cinder’s claim to power might not go uncontested; so swift a rise bred dissonance among the more established members of the gentry. If any such opposition existed now in the face of such an assertion, it was nowhere to be seen.

One by one, row upon row, those in attendance bowed, heads and eyes lowering, ceding. The surrender welled up, boiling unbidden in the pit of Glynda’s stomach, and she found herself staring at the rich black earth scattered with thorny brambles and gold-orange leaves as if Cinder herself had crept up behind her and pressed a palm between her shoulder blades, pushing her down, down into as shallow a bow as she could manage until her legs shook from the strain. Mouth dry, Glynda dared to crane her neck back ever so slightly, chancing a glimpse of the throne. There Cinder watched her – only her – with a hunger like a dark promise.

–

Seeds of rebellion were tricky things, inclined to spread their roots deep and wandering with every attempt to pluck them out. Some were impossible to even find before they violently flowered, but Cinder had watched the growth and turn of every Autumn bloodline for centuries now, and she knew all of the signs, subtle and overt. Letters exchanged and then burned, whispers between servants and nobility, an order in the middle of the night to ensure the contents of private armories were polished and fit for combat. Evidence built like grains of sand on one side of a scale, trickling in slowly as not to tip its side and give warning, but she had long since determined the source of growing treason.

 _Cythera Adel._ The tip of Cinder’s quill circled the name absent ink, scraping into ancient vellum as it traced across connected bloodlines, perfunctory ties of marriage between cousins and byblows that connected the Adels to the Daichi clan and Lord Alistair’s bastard-heavy lineage, with a small scholar’s note at the bottom declaring that every Faunus bearing the Scarlatina name was property within their alliance. Their loyalty was impregnable, but there were not enough of them to service every function across all three noble houses, and Cinder had met her promise to the letter, placing her own agents in every vacancy without rousing more than faint suspicion.

Surely Cythera knew she would strike at some point, but not when or where, and those were the only keys Cinder required to wear the foundation beneath this growing revolution thin. She had acquired copies of maps and other plans, lists of names and supply caches, but the crucial piece was a letter penned by Akiko to contacts in the Summer Court, calling on a centuries-old debt to bring warriors close to the borders between courts. While the sudden arrival of Summer soldiers aiding a rebellion would make their attack look like a unified front against a queen unfit to rule, it was also the move Cinder used to sign death warrants across the board.

Challenging one’s ruler was not unheard of, but it was the highest treason to use the agents of another court to foment dissent, and they would not survive the attempt. Cinder smiled, applying her seal to the final letter that would be sent – delivered to Summer Rose herself, demanding to know if soldiers bearing her crest were conspiring to an act of war – and neatly gathering the stack together once the wax dried.

“Neo.” Cinder said aloud, not bothering to look over her shoulder. The changeling was always there, even if she never spoke. “You can let him in now.”

The door opened with a soft creak, admitting Gavran and his nigh-silent footsteps. Silver had started to pierce his hair in recent years, leaving the feathers there glistening like obsidian settings in a crown, but the Faunus remained spry and quick-witted as ever. He bowed deeply, hands cupped together, and rose only when Cinder cleared her throat. “Your Majesty.”

“All of these are to be delivered tonight.” She presented Gavran the letters, bound together with a strip of silk, and he nodded. “An agent of the Wild Hunt is waiting for you at the border between courts. Summer Rose’s letter will go to them, but the others I require to be passed on by your own hand.”

Another sharp nod. “Of course, my Queen.”

“Cythera Adel and her conspirators will be arrested before dawn. As soon as they are presented publicly in the custody of the court, I want every living soul on their properties executed. Anyone who is not pledged to us dies. I don’t care for the methods how.”

Gavran made to bow again, but a wary look entered his eyes. “Including their children, your Majesty?”

Hesitation was unusual for the Faunus, the very flicker of it enough to make Cinder pause to consider. Without a doubt he would act to the very letter of her orders, but if it shook the foundation of his obedience – and that of others – she would be sowing seeds anew, ones that would be much harder to raze from the earth. She could be merciful; to a point, anyway.

“No, not including their children, Gavran.” Putting on a mildly irritated air, Cinder caught the gulp of relief that down his throat. “Bring them to me after the deed is done. Including…mm. Alva has a daughter, does she not?”

“Yes, your Majesty. She was sworn to Cythera’s daughter on the day of her birth.” Gavran’s relief had transformed back to sharp attentiveness, and Cinder withheld a smile; if sparing some nameless Faunus girl was the price this to go off without a hitch, it was a price easily paid.

“Then deliver all four of them to me, but ensure not a word escapes their lips.” It wouldn’t do to spoil the surprise, after all. “Cythera will learn of her folly by royal decree.”

With a tight bow, Gavran left to see her will done, and Cinder rose from her desk to gather a red, crystalline vial from a nearby shelf. Approaching the blazing fireplace, she promptly crushed the glass in her hands, magic igniting from the collusion of fresh blood and flame, and with slick fingertips, Cinder drew a rune across the stone of the mantle.

“Raven Branwen, Caller of the Wild Hunt,” Cinder intoned, “As Autumn’s sovereign, I bind you by the name of Court and Queen to attend my service.”

The congealing blood began to sizzle and spark, acknowledgment that the message was received before the rune was scorched clean.

“Ride fast.” She added with a smile. “I expect you here by tomorrow.”

–

If the Autumn Court excelled at anything, it was the hunt, and a blooded pack of royal guards dragged Cythera in chains in front of her throne before dawn’s light touched the horizon. Akiko and Raleigh were shackled behind her, neither one resisting but both with their heads held high, staring defiantly forward. Cinder had summoned the whole of the court to attend these proceedings, ensuring the nobility were far from the butchery being enacted in their absence, but no one attending shared more than cursory ties with the traitors, and wouldn’t be inclined to offer support – just as planned.

She allowed an attendant to read off the charges, each one announced with a dramatic and dire flourish before calling Neo to her side, the Knight disguised as Autumn’s executioner, wearing the same mask Cinder had once treasured.

“Cythera Adel, you stand accused of treason, sedition, and uncountable conspiracies.” Cinder began, back straight and tone razor-sharp with judgment. Never had the crown felt lighter on her head, the throne more suited to her frame. “I would be impressed with your ingenuity were it not an unspeakable betrayal by a friend and trusted servant to the throne. Is there anything you have to offer in your defense?”  
  
“You slaughtered your way to that throne and dare to accuse me of treason?” Cythera spit, the chain between her wrists trembling with the force of rage. “Did none of you gathered here wonder how a low-blooded spawn of an Unseelie came to rule us? Or are you all simply too cowardly to question it?”

“I was named heir by King Ambrose, who brought the Autumn Court to the height where it stands now.” There was no need to feign the outrage in her voice when it was true, the reality written into being by a thousand years of planning. “He treated me as a daughter, and I will not have his actions besmirched by your vile tongue.”

“You would have never gotten so close to him if you hadn’t–” A frustrated roar left Cythera’s throat as she twisted in her restraints, forcing the guards around her to pull the chains taut again, so far apart she was nearly knocked off-balance. “I have proof!”

“Proof? And where is it?” Cinder reached into the folds of her robe, drawing out a small bronze key that she turned to Cythera’s view, watching as the blood drained from the noblewoman’s face. “In your estate, Lady Adel? In the same false drawer where you’ve hidden documents for centuries? I consider it a blessing that one of your servant was more loyal to the crown than to you, and presented me with your supposed proof.”

“No–” The volume fell out of Cythera’s voice, choking on that single syllable.

Without a second’s hesitation, Cinder continued. “No witnesses will answer your call, Cythera. I burned every last page of the false testimony you created, every mocked-up bloodline record that insulted our King, now passed into the grave. You will be executed here today for daring to rebel against the throne for the sake of your own ambition.”

“My own–” Cythera shook her head, eyes going wide. “It was not my intent to take the throne myself, only to remove you from it.”

“Strange.” A purposeful blink of consideration later, Cinder allowed a smile to stretch across her face. “Because there is an entire unit of Summer Court soldiers that confessed as such an hour ago when Queen Summer discovered their collusion with you.”

The lie was petty but calculated, enough for Cythera to buckle and turn towards Akiko, whose solemn mask was beginning to shatter. She shook her head, eyes falling to the floor, and Cinder watched true fear finally enter Cythera’s face, the chain between her wrists sagging.

“There is no telling how many people you recruited to your false cause, but I have already ensured that your families and estate will not rally behind you. Your name and every piece of property will be stripped away and surrendered to the crown.”

“What have you done?” Cythera whispered, horror making her voice shake. “Did you–my husband–”

“You know what happens to traitors of the realm, Lady Adel.” Cinder raised her hand, summoning Gavran forward with a crook of her fingers. “But I’ve allowed you a single mercy, one you should be grateful for.”

Four chained subjects were brought forward, roughened leather hoods over their heads and tattered brown robes obscuring identity until Gavran pushed them to their knees and removed the hoods one by one. The three noble heirs looked shaken to their bones, but Alva’s daughter was quietly sobbing, and Cinder expected the dried blood across her face meant she had been witness to the slaughter before being stolen away.

“Velvet!” Cythera snapped, forgetting her place without a care. “Tell me that your mother–”

“They’re dead.” The young Faunus gasped, drawing in her shoulders as if to make herself smaller. “Everyone’s dead.”

Silence fell across the court with iron’s weight, pervading so deep that the shuffle of footsteps echoed all the way to the ceiling as two tall fae left their seats in the crowd to approach the waiting prisoners. Both were swathed in dark clothes worn grey from endless wear, an amalgam of hides and furs displaying trophies from the hunt and covering patches where fabric had been stitched and repaired time and time again. Save for the royal guard, the pair were the only ones present that bore arms, swords so massive that they could only be meant for killing Unseelie monstrosities. Cinder’s brow wrinkled; she had only summoned Raven, but it appeared her twin brother had ridden in on the same invitation – not that it particularly mattered now.

“The Wild Hunt.” Akiko said aloud, the first to recover from her shock. “You’re exiling us.”

“Not you, Lady Daichi. Autumn’s axe will take your blood this day.” Cinder peered out to the crowd, watching for their reaction as she formed the next words. “But without names, these children have no future to speak of. Rather than condemning them to death or servitude, they will live on with the Hunt.”

“You may as well kill them.” Raleigh snarled under his breath. “I would rather my son was executed as a noble than rot in the stomach of an Unseelie.”

“That is no longer your decision to make, Lord Raleigh.” Another gesture to Neo brought the headsman’s block forward, a dark and smooth stone that reeked of blood no matter how it was scraped or cleaned. “Is there any soul here that wishes to speak in their defense? Will any of you call for the mercy of the crown?”

No one answered. Cinder even heard a bitter huff of amusement from Qrow after the silence passed, but members of the Hunt were rarely known for their decorum. The guards brought Cythera forward first, a boot on her back pushing her down against the block.

“You’re going to make my daughter watch this?” She hissed, a few final sparks of anger rising the resignation of her fate.

“Yes.” Cinder said simply, as if there was no other possibility to be had. “I am.”

Neo’s axe sang through the air, and a spray of hot blood fell at Cinder’s feet like rain.

–

The same way a forest was alight with wildfire, the Spring Court was alight with the news. Word always traveled quickly, but this was unheard of in the last ten thousand years. Murmurs flitted between mouths like dark swallows between thorny branches, glances and suspicion and any new gossip an exchanged currency between hands. Standing beside Ozpin upon his throne which grew from the great timeless tree at the fore of the hall, Glynda surveyed the congregation stretched before her with a sense of alienation and lingering horror.

It felt like only yesterday that Cinder had taken the throne, and the memory remained fresh in her mind like a still-warm kill, some unlucky unwary prey twitching and pinned beneath a hunter’s spear. Sometimes she drew breath and swore she could still feel the Autumn mist swarming in her lungs, seeping into her from within as insidious and unseen as poison. The effects of that day – Cinder’s recent coronation – could already be seen rippling throughout the realms, reaching even here.

Inter-court conspiracies to overthrow a queen. A rebellion quelled with ruthless efficacy. Children banished to the Wild Hunt. The last time the courts had experienced this much turmoil, a war still spoken of in hushed whispers had ruptured forth. Glynda could only imagine how Cinder must be flourishing in such an environment.

The mutters grew in pitch, climbing to a panicked summit and threatening to overflow. So few could recount the old war from personal experience, but the fae were cursed with long memories; they did not easily forget the destruction that had been unleashed, settling over the lands like a plague. Seeing the fear breeding in their eyes, jumping from person to person, Glynda recognized the raw terror there for what it was. Beside her, Ozpin did nothing, simply watching, but Glynda did not need explicit instruction to know what must be done.

Stepping forward, she raised one arm to the sky, and the heavens answered. At her gesture, black clouds whirled overhead, and a crack of thunder made the treetops tremble. Immediately the court fell silent, turning to watch her, to watch Ozpin upon his throne. With a clench of her fist and a torrent of powerful magic, Glynda dispelled the summoned tempest, and drawing in a deep breath, lowering her arm to her side once more she addressed the crowd.

“I understand your unease, my brethren. Change is always an unknown – you are not alone in this. News of Autumn has spread far and wide, but we must remember that decay is but a part of Autumn’s nature, as inevitable as the tide. It, too, will pass. It will not come to Spring. It will not come to war.”

Beside her, she could feel Ozpin watching her with canny eyes even as she commanded the crowd, but still he remained silent, a watcher far-removed, allowing her to speak in his stead. Straightening her shoulders, Glynda forged onto the daily court proceedings, “Now, you may come forward, and I will see to your petitions myself.”

–

An ache from hips to nape chased Glynda with flickers of pain as she was given leave to return to her quarters, finally dismissed after hours standing in court, fielding the gentry’s worries and rumors that upset in the Autumn court would spread its roots to Spring. Queen Summer herself attested that the soldiers she detained said nothing of such greater conspiracy, noting that Cinder had dealt with the rebels in vicious Autumn style, bloody enough to dissuade any who might find inspiration in insurrection. Yet guards had been doubled in most private courts and parlours by those refusing to take a risk, and centuries of quietly hoarded secrets were now being bartered to the crown as proof of loyalty.

The gauntlet was thrown. Glynda felt it like a blow to the cheek, a goad to challenge Cinder’s power before she pruned the Autumn Court to her liking, but her duty was to Spring, and nothing Ozpin held dominion over had suffered so much as a scratch in this undertaking. It was a message of its own nonetheless – _share this with me, drink deep_ – and that forged the needle driven through Glynda’s heart, bleeding her from within. With a single request, Ozpin would mark her as heir, and all the inevitable would demand was time.

How would she refuse if they were made equal again? The crown offered no immunity from Cinder’s whispers, her reach, her touch. Glynda could summon no defense but silence and unyielding stillness, insistent on never taking the last step over the boundary between them. Loyalty to Spring was no lesser a burden, wrapped like a noose around her throat while Autumn clawed at her ankles, bargaining on the rope snapping before the column of her neck did. To abandon both name and blood was unthinkable, and thus her only exit from the game sealed shut.

Pride was a flawed and fragile shield, but it was all she had.

Glynda reached to unclasp her cloak, only for her thumb to catch on the pin when she saw the letter on top of her desk. A drop of blood swelled forth, the pain forgotten in an instant as the sheath of velvet fell from her shoulders to the floor, stepped on without a second thought as she reached for the parchment and confirmed its familiar seal. Drawing in a breath, the familiar scent of the wax tangled with Cinder’s perfume, notes so faint that it could only have come from constant contact, rather than spritzed onto the paper. Whatever was inside, Glynda was assured it had taken a very long time to write.

Anything could be written in Cinder’s hand, a thousand promises and cruelties fused with black ink and cast onto the page. Without other markers, it wasn’t a royal missive delivered to all those of the proper rank, and carefully folding the parchment and back confirmed that there was nothing trapped behind the seal, no memento or trophy to speak of. Possibility swelled between Glynda’s hands, trapped there by the knowledge that whatever was within could sway her heart. Poison that she would savor until it clung to her lips like honey, coated her throat with its taste.

“But you wouldn’t say that to me, would you?” Glynda whispered aloud, fingers tensing around the letter until she heard the crisp paper crinkle. “I’m not even sure if you can.”

What would the harm be, then? Looking inside would likely confirm her worst fears about everything Cinder intended to be, but it could also be hint enough to deliver into Ozpin’s hands, revealing dire motives without a word falling from her own lips. Yet that would only infuse the threat of war with new vigor, with no promise of who would ally with whom. If the message was too threatening, Glynda knew she would have no choice to deliver it or be crushed under the guilt of consequence soon to come, but there were countless words Cinder could deliver that had no weight on politics, only to ensnare her heart one final time.

“I cannot be Queen. I will not.” The parchment bent under the pressure of Glynda’s hands, wax cracking as the seal was twisted nearly to the point of breaking. “And I think you would hate me for taking the throne one day. You would realize I had only done it to make you happy, rather to slake my own ambitions. I have none, Cinder. I cannot make them grow within me.”

Perhaps there was more of Winter’s blood in her veins than she often cared to measure. Sterile and cold, untouchable even by the most passionate heat.

“I won’t change who I am, wild one.” The urge to read the letter grew with every passing second, each leaden step Glynda took towards the fireplace. Sparks jumped out from the grate and hissed against her boots, ravenous and warm, and she let the parchment fall into the waiting flame, watching as it leapt up to consume its prey. “I won’t let us ruin each other, and the world with it.”

_All-consuming and beautiful as it might be._

Glynda watched as Cinder’s words were eaten away, black ink scalded into grey ash, red wax melted anew and dripping into the hearth. The regret she waited for didn’t come, only the knowledge that somehow, the last thread between them had been severed. No other letters would come, this impertinence never forgiven, not by a Queen who lacked the capacity to forgive, no matter who wronged her.

Such was for the better. She loved Cinder too much to ever want to be forgiven.

–


End file.
